


Reckoning

by Reddragon1995



Category: Game of Thrones (TV Show)
Genre: And you’ve been warned so don’t troll, Aunt/Nephew Incest, Boat Baby exists, Daenerys is not mad, Darker Daenerys, Eventual Smut?, F/M, Grief, Hostage Jon Snow, I mean Stark stans are free to read but don’t expect to be happy with it, Jon is not a wet noodle, Mental Illness, Not for lovers of Sansa or the Starks, Penance - Freeform, Post Traumatic Stress, Reconciliation, Relationship Issues, Sansa you in danger girl, Targaryen Restoration, Treason, episode 6 scene, making amends, past tense smut, probably AU, sad queen, season 8 fix, slow if any burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-03-08 07:26:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18889951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reddragon1995/pseuds/Reddragon1995
Summary: Scenes from post Season 8, first chapter set during the series finale which I refuse to acknowledge. Dany did burn King’s Landing so this is Jon amd her trying to come to terms with what they’ve both done, and how they move forward, and what they’re going to be to each other. Dany is darker and more ruthless but not full on Darth Daenerys. She just can’t trust anyone.





	1. Three Words That Became Hard To Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon pleads for mercy to Daenerys
> 
> I have reworked and republished this chapter and I think it’s an improvement. Hope you like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Load the car and write the note  
> Grab your bag and grab your coat  
> Tell the ones that need to know  
> We are headed north
> 
> One foot in and one foot back  
> But it don't pay to live like that  
> So I cut the ties and I jumped the tracks  
> For never to return
> 
> When at first I learned to speak  
> I used all my words to fight  
> With him and her and you and me  
> Ah, but it's just a waste of time  
> Yeah, it's such a waste of time
> 
> That woman she's got eyes that shine  
> Like a pair of stolen polished dimes  
> She asked to dance, I said it's fine  
> I'll see you in the morning time
> 
> Three words that became hard to say  
> I and love and you  
> What you were then I am today  
> Look at the things I do
> 
> Ah Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in  
> Are you aware the shape I'm in?  
> My hands they shake, my head it spins  
> Ah Brooklyn, Brooklyn take me in
> 
> ~From “I And Love And You,” The Avett Brothers

**JON**

 

Devastation. Chaos. Rubble and ash and the stench of charred flesh permeated the air, burning his eyes and nose and lungs.

 

A day and night had passed since she’d descended from Drogon’s back on the main steps of the Red Keep and addressed her triumphant army.  He’d stood with her on the landing, numb and stunned, understanding very little of what she said, but her message had been clear all the same.  She did not spare him a word after she finished her speech, just a cold glare before she marched off, flanked by a contingent of bodyguards. 

 

After that, Jon had nothing to do but wander the city in a dream like state, and think.  What had she done? What had  _ they _ done? And as one thought followed another, a terrible notion took root in his mind, for the Queen was now bent on vengeance, and would seek to exact the price on all her enemies. The city was taken and the throne was hers, but none were safe. Not yet. 

 

He had to see her. There was no choice.

 

He followed the silent Unsullied soldier through the ruined labyrinth of the Red Keep, surveying the damage around him; the fallen columns and broken walls, the shards of glass, the twisted steel and crumbled stone, all covered in a thick coat of soot and ashes that still flurried like a springtime snow, the legacy of her  forebears - and his - crushed in a day. Bitterly, he mused that if things had been different, if Rhaegar hadn’t been reckless, they’d have grown up here together, betrothed from the crib, running through the corridors and courtyards and secret passages, playing and learning, fighting and (eventually) fucking. They wouldn’t be the same people, but at least they’d be safe and happy.

 

The fell blow of a warhammer snuffed out the promise of that life, and those who stole it from them had been repaid with fire and blood. But the innocents of King’s Landing had stolen nothing. Their only crime was to live within the city walls, to try to work and make homes and raise children and be a bother to no one, and she’d torched thousands of them like kindling anyway. 

 

He’d been a fool to believe that civilians would be spared when the city fell. He grew up listening to stories of the rebellion and the sack of King’s Landing; a glorious day, the tales and songs said, of brave and valiant soldiers come to rid the realm of a mad tyrant. Hearing of it was one thing, but to witness the chaos firsthand was another. The most horrifying part was that even his own men had been set loose like beasts, raping and murdering because they  _ could _ .

 

He’d always been a fighter, but he wasn’t a soldier.  He knew that now. He didn’t have the stomach for it. All he wanted was to go away, back to the North and beyond the Wall, to live out his days and try to forget it all. To forget  _ her _ . But he’d sworn himself to her, and she needed him.  He could not live with himself if he didn’t at least try to pull her back from the dark abyss, instead of letting her drown.  She was his home, his blood, his love. And he’d already failed her once.

 

She’d taken her throne, but at what cost? The good Queen who had come to Winterfell with her army and dragons and sacrificed so much for the North, for no gain, was buried under layers of grief and anger. Before the battle (if it could really be called such), she’d begged for his love, but he could only offer loyalty. He could not reconcile what they had been with what they actually were, and was reticent to even touch her, for if he did, he knew he would succumb to the temptation and dishonor them both with his wantonness. 

 

Perhaps he should have. Perhaps he could have held the darkness at bay if he’d surrendered to what they both wanted. He supposed he’d never know. And now was not the time to ponder it.

 

🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶

 

He was brought to a council chamber that had obviously been unused for years. Dust particles tickled his nose as they danced in the dim rays of sunlight peeking through the tall, narrow windows. Cobwebs the size of bird nests clung to the ceiling. A faded tapestry hung on one wall; on closer inspection Jon realized that it depicted Robert’s victory at the Trident. Bile rose in his throat at the image of his sire, dead in the water, blood trailing from his mouth as the stag loomed over him. He wondered if she’d left it there to goad him, or to keep the flames of her own anger alight, to justify her actions against the traitors and usurpers, as she saw them. 

 

She was seated at the head of a long, polished wood table. Tears stung his eyes as he beheld her.  She looked healthier than she had on Dragonstone a few days prior; her pallid complexion was pinkening a bit, the dark circles beneath her eyes had faded, and freshly washed, glossy waves cascaded over her shoulders and down her back, the way he preferred it, rather than all those intricate, interwoven braids. Her dress was one he had not seen, crisp and regal, black leather with iridescent red scales covering the severe shoulders. But she seemed so small, like a child pretending in her mother’s clothes. Her eyes were still that striking greenish-blue, but cold and empty as a corpse. Gods be damned, she was so beautiful, but gone was the softness, the inner light. She was a husk that looked enough like Dany, but Dany was dead.  He’d killed her, as much as Cersei or Varys or the others who’d betrayed or failed her. 

 

He wasn’t sure how to begin, but her soldier urged him forward with a bit more force than necessary, and he knelt before her, bowing his head. He reached for Longclaw to lay it at her feet, forgetting that he’d been stripped of his weapons. How had they gone back to the beginning so quickly?

“ _ Dāria Daenerys Jelmāzmo hen lentor Targārien _ ,” the soldier announced in his thick  accent, as if Jon did not know. 

 

He scowled. These Unsullied, though brave and fierce fighters, had started to annoy him. Fortunately, he fought the urge to reply, “ _ Nyke Aegon hen lenton Targārien se Stark, hen Valyrio uēpo ānogār iksan se ēlī vali.” _ He didn’t even know if that was right. He’d picked up a smidgen of Valyrian, ostensibly so he could better communicate with her commanders, but really so he could understand some of the things she said to him in bed. But the Common tongue gave him enough fits, that he knew he’d never master his mother tongue as she had. And now was not the time to flaunt his true identity.

 

His mind was devoid of proper protocols.  He thought it best for her to speak first, and she did.

 

“What do you want?”

 

Her tone was icy, cutting like a Valyrian blade. He remembered how she used to sound when she spoke to him, so sweet and melodic, intimate and tender.  He missed it. 

 

“Your Grace, I’ve come to beg mercy.” 

 

She dismissed the sentry with a curt nod, then shifted her impassive gaze to him. Gingerly, he rose to his feet. Unsure of what to do with his hands, he clasped them behind his back.

 

“Mercy?”

 

“For...for my sister.”

 

“Have I condemned her?”

 

She was preternaturally still, and her face was unreadable. He searched for any sign of affection left in those pale blue eyes, but he was only met with indifference. Not that he could blame her. He wanted to reach for her, to pull her into his arms, to tell her that he still loved her, to save her soul.  But he couldn’t say the words, because what did it make him, to love someone so destructive?  

 

“I know what you intend,” he replied gruffly, and he cringed as soon as the words escaped him.  He understood the need for a careful approach.  

 

She clasped her hands and rested them on her lap. When he dared inch closer, he saw the whiteness of her knuckles, the slight bobble of her throat and quiver of her bottom lip, but whether it was anger or uncertainty, he could not tell.

 

“She is a traitor”.

 

“She made a  _ mistake _ .”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “She made a  _ choice _ . And she knew exactly what would happen. As soon as Tyrion told Varys, the Spider turned on me. He tried to poison me.”

 

Jon’s eyes saucered. If what the Queen alleged was true, then Sansa had signed her death warrant, or worse,  _ he _ had. He did not want to believe it. She’d been distraught and vulnerable. Suspicious of everyone. And Varys had made clear his intention to undermine her, but to go so far as to assassinate her? It was beyond the pale. 

 

It broke his heart. Truly, in those last days. before the attack, Daenerys had been completely alone in the world,  _ A terrible thing,  _ Maester Aemon’s prophetic words echoed in his ears. And King’s Landing had paid the price for it. Gods, he was a damn fool. Was there a person living in this world who wasn’t a complete piece of shit? He doubted it, himself included. It was a harrowing realization.

 

“How….how do you know?”

 

The Queen finally pushed herself out of her chair and stalked up to him slowly, like a great cat tracking her prey. “You are continually surprised by what people are capable of, aren’t you?” she purred as she placed a hand on his cheek, though there was no tenderness in the gesture. “Men have been trying to kill me all my life. Varys included, when he served the usurper.  I’ve learned well to recognize the signs.”

 

Jon closed his eyes and swallowed hard, silently cursing their circumstances. He and Daenerys had talked at length about her childhood in the Free Cities, on the run from cutthroats that seemed to lurk around every corner, and all other manner of predators for whom a beautiful girl with Valyrian features might fetch some hefty coin. It made for odd pillow talk. But to know her pain was to know her, and he had wanted to know everything, and she would indulge him, curling her body into the safe harbor of his arms as he stroked her hair.

 

“Varys was only the instrument,” she continued, lowering her hand. “Sansa was the composer. She did not reveal your secret for any purpose but to destroy me, her rightful Queen. Tell me, If she weren’t your family, what sentence would you deem just?” She tilted her chin toward him, and her warm breath feathered over his ear, raising gooseflesh on his arms. Her full lips were parted slightly, daring him to taste, but now was not the time. Kissing wouldn’t solve this. Instead he knelt before her once more, gazing up at her with wet, pleading eyes.

 

He had no argument. Sansa had committed treason, or at least was complicit in it.  If she weren’t his family, he’d have swung the sword himself.

 

“It’s my fault,” he lamented. “You were right. I should’ve kept my silence. I’m to blame for this.”

 

She squared her shoulders and glided to the other side of the room to gaze out at Blackwater Bay, where the remains of the Greyjoy fleet still smouldered in the distance. 

 

“It doesn’t matter now,” she muttered, nonchalant. “Justice must be served. And a Queen who allows traitors to live freely in her realm will not be Queen for very long.”

 

He scrambled to his feet. “Take me!” he blurted. “Throw me in a cell. Send me away, never to return. Gods,  _ execute  _ me, if that’s what it takes!  Do what you must to be rid of me! They can’t conspire to seat me on the throne if I’m gone. Please!”

 

The Queen folded her arms over her chest, shivering a bit as a breeze wafted through the chamber, stirring up more ash and dust. Her face was a mask of ambivalence.  Could she really feel  _ anything  _ anymore, or had he stripped that from her as well?

 

 She sighed deeply, and Jon realized how beleaguered she was, how war weary, much like him. They’d both been fighting their entire lives, one way or another, and they’d only ever known peace in one another’s arms. Now that was lost too.

 

“You are not guilty of your cousin’s crimes, Jon, and I will not allow you to fall on your sword for her. Her treason is her own, and an example must be made. I have no other choice.”

 

He was at a loss.  Jon had no real affection for Sansa; she was his kin, but they’d always been distant. She thought herself superior as a child, and undermined him at every opportunity when they  reunited. She overestimated her own intelligence, and belittled his. She was shifty and self-interested, and manipulative at that, but he’d excused much of her behavior in the interest of uniting and protecting the North.  And she’d crossed the line. She had broken a promise made in the sight of the Old Gods when she shared a secret that was not hers to reveal, and he would never forgive her. He frankly did not care if he ever set eyes on her again. But he had no wish for her to be burned alive.

 

Cautiously, he approached the Queen, and clasped her hands in his.  It felt like he was holding someone else’s hands, not the ones that had mapped every inch of his body not so long ago. 

 

“Sansa won’t move against you, nor will anyone else.  You burned King’s Landing to ash. I hate that you did it, I don’t understand it, and I don’t condone it. But you sent a clear message. Sansa already knows that she can’t defeat you. She’s always known. And she can’t use me to do it either.  You are my….”

 

“Don’t. Fucking say it,” she hissed. He felt her hands clench within his grasp.

 

“Your Grace,” he pressed his lips to her right knuckles, then her left, “if you have any love left for me in your heart, I am begging you. Spare my sister.”

 

She jerked hands away and glared at him imperiously, and spoke so low it was nearly a whisper. “I begged you once, but you did not have enough love in your heart for me to honor my request. If you had, there would be no need for this conversation.”

 

Jon released a flustered breath. Telling the truth hadn’t been about his love for her, but about his own honor, the very fabric of who he thought he was. With irony, he recalled Tyrion’s words about learning to lie, just a bit. But he felt his sisters deserved to know, and he did not anticipate Sansa’s betrayal, even if he should have.

 

“I’m sorry,” he shook his head. “I wish….”

 

“It doesn’t matter what you wish.” She returned her gaze to the horizon, leaning her head against the window frame, the light breeze loosening wisps of silver hair that once he would have brushed away as he caressed her face. “I did not want it to be this way. I had hoped that your cousin and I could be friendly, or at least understand each other. But she decided to treat me as her enemy. And she chose her enemy unwisely. They both did.”

 

“What do you mean?” Now his heart was pounding furiously, blood rushing to his head so quickly he felt dizzy, his thoughts a jumbled mess. She was so detached now, almost inhuman, it reminded him of Bran. She threw him a sidelong glance, ruthlessness flashing in those beautiful blue orbs in which he’d lost himself so many times.

 

“You are correct. It is not Sansa Stark who poses the greatest threat to me.  Conniving as she may be, she is no fool. No force she could muster could stand against Drogon, let alone my entire army. If she wants me dead, she would have to wield the knife herself, and considering that she cowered in the crypts with the little children during the battle of Winterfell, that seems unlikely.” She returned her cool gaze to the bay. “But Arya Stark...she is another matter. And she is at large in the city. Some of your soldiers stopped her before the siege and she said she’d come to kill the Queen.”

 

His heart seized. He’d seen Arya after the city fell, and prayed she had the good sense to get the fuck out, but apparently not. His mind raced, searching for the words to defend his favorite sister.

 

“Cersei. She meant to kill Cersei, not you.”

 

The Queen turned on her heel suddenly, retreating from the window, the hem of her gown rustling with each stride. She kept her arms crossed in front of her, as if shielding herself. “Perhaps. But once Sansa is publicly declared a traitor, I’ve no doubt she’ll set her sights on me. You do know what Arya is? What she was doing all those years you were parted?”

 

Of course Jon knew his sister had endured terrible things. She’d always been as sturdy as an oak tree, but when they met again, all her innocence had been lost, her heart hard and her hide thick. She was as sharp and quick as ever,  but now cynical and cold. Lethal, too. It pained him to consider how this version of Arya may have been forged; what she’d had to do, what had been done to her. They never got around to talking about it. His whole family were strangers to him now, including the woman before him.

 

“She didn’t tell me,” he mumbled.

 

“Or you didn’t ask.” The Queen started to pace agitatedly, like Ghost when kenneled, putting Jon on edge. “But I wanted to learn more of the girl who slew the Night King. I’d hoped she might be of service to me. Varys was good for something, at least. He learned that Arya  spent time in Braavos, at the House of Black and White.”

 

 “I…..I don’t know what that is.”

 

“It is the temple of the Many Faced God,” she explained as if telling a bedtime story. “And home of the Faceless Men, a league of highly skilled assassins. Highly skilled because they can wear other people’s faces, walk in their skin, speak in their voice. An effective method of infiltration as you can imagine. And Arya is one of them.”

 

He was bewildered. He’d fought walking corpses, ridden a dragon, and come back from the dead, but  _ this _ was impossible. Only he knew the Queen was telling the truth. And she thought Arya would be coming for her. Realistically, Jon knew she was probably right. Arya had already made her distrust of the Queen known, and had warned him that she was a threat to his life. And Arya was nothing, if not a defender of her own. The Queen was smart; she knew all this. Better to strike first then, than wait around to be the victim. 

 

His heart was racing and his head throbbed. He loved them both. He never wanted to have to choose. He’d been stupid enough to believe he wouldn’t have to, because they’d all come to love each other as much as they loved him. To the contrary, they all made their judgments without bothering to try to know each other, and now both sides were proven right in their distrust of the other. And he was bound to dragon and direwolf, drawn and quartered, his heart and soul split in two.

 

“I’ll find her,” he vowed. One of them surely could be reasoned with. 

 

But he’d tried before. While Dany was clearly put off by how the Starks received her, she had not lost sleep over it, for she required only their loyalty. He heard she’d even tried to make amends with Sansa. But his sisters were openly hostile, and Jon had been so very exhausted, with two wars and the truth of his parentage weighing heavy on him. He didn’t defend her as vigorously as he should. Didn’t do enough to smooth things over.

 

And now, someone Jon loved was likely going to try to murder someone else he loved.

 

“There’s no need for that,” The Queen said as she continued pacing. “My best men are searching everywhere. She will be found and brought to me _. _ ”

 

_ “ _ For what?” Before he could think, grabbed her elbow, spinning her around to face him.

 

He half expected her to strike him, or summon her guards to have him removed, but instead her visage softened, and she was Dany again for that fleeting moment. She raised her right hand, and brushed a stray curl from his forehead. Reflexively his eyes closed. Gods be damned that her touch still affected him so.

 

“I am sorry, Jon Snow. I am. But I must protect myself now. I must protect us.” 

 

Her right hand fell to her abdomen, and Jon’s eyes grew wide as her meaning dawned on him.

 

A child. She carried his child.

 

His legs nearly buckled, the breath forced from his lungs. “How long?”

 

She sighed and said quietly, “A little more than three moons, judging by my last blood.”

_ The ship, then.  _

 

“You’ve known that long, and didn’t tell me?” Anger lanced through him. He wrapped his hands hard around her shoulders, forcing her to incline her head and meet his piercing gaze. Her bottom lip trembled and tears formed like morning dew in the corners of her eyes, the first sign of emotion she’d displayed.

 

“I didn’t want to believe it,” she sniffled, childlike. He loosened his grip, panting and trying to steady himself. “I ignored the signs until I could no longer. The Dothraki midwife confirmed it when I returned to Dragonstone. I wanted to tell you, but couldn’t bear you rejecting our child as you had rejected me.”

 

His face fell as he fought tears of his own. He would  _ never _ , especially considering his own childhood, longing for the love of a mother, the approval and pride of a father.  That she believed he would was his greatest failure of all. What an ass he’d been. He wanted to gather her in his arms, kiss her, smell her hair, enjoy what should be welcome news. A child, something she’d thought impossible and of which he never dared dream. A true Targaryen heir. A dragon.  He was awash with protective instinct. This was too precious a gift to leave to chance. He knew she was right. There would always be those who would seek to destroy her. But his family….

 

He cradled her face in his hands, like he’d done so often, and lowered his forehead to hers. She did not resist him, even seemed to melt into him for a bit, as it was before the terrible truth had sprouted up between them like a noxious weed, choking the life from the love they’d cultivated. Then he sank to his knees before her again, his hands strong around her hips, his nose nuzzling her belly in reverence.

 

 “I’ll protect you,” he vowed, his voice muffled in the folds of her skirt.  “I’ll protect both of you, with my life. Anyone who lifts a finger to harm you or conspire against you, I will kill them with my bare hands.” He craned his neck, his brown eyes wide and entreating.   “Let me speak to my sisters. Whatever notions they have, they won’t act against you, not now. Not against their own flesh and blood.” 

 

“Do you honestly believe that your family will have a care for a bastard born of incest?” she argued, pushing his head from her waist.  She cupped his chin, forcing his gaze to hers, but he jerked his head from her touch.

 

“Don’t ever say that,” he snapped, his eyes narrowing angrily.  “Ever. Never say that about our child.” No seed of his would bear the burden of that mantle.  He’d drag her to the Godswood here and now, if he must. He burrowed his face against her middle once more, squeezing her tightly.

 

He felt her run her fingers through his curls, and it lulled him. It was intimate. Affectionate.  Trusting. And in that moment he could almost forget the space between their hearts, still wide as the sea.

 

“Fear not,” she cooed.   “My child will be no bastard.  Not a Waters or a Snow or a Blackfyre. He will be Targaryen, through and through, and I will not hear otherwise. And he shall rule the Seven Kingdoms one day, and carry on our legacy.”

 

“And my sisters?”  He released her and stood.

 

The Queen inhaled deeply as she closed her eyes.  “I’m quite tired now. I must rest.” She walked over to the door and rapped on the wood thrice, summoning her guard back into the chamber, speaking some instruction in her mother tongue. 

 

The guard was upon Jon in two strides, grasping his elbow to escort him away.  Jon tried to jerk his arm loose, but the grip tightened, and he felt the butt of a dagger pressed against his back.  He was abuzz with every sort of emotion now, coiled and ready to strike.

 

“Daenerys,” he pleaded.

 

“I’ve had a chamber prepared for you.  Brown Rat will take you. And behave yourself, Jon Snow.  I’ll have a bath drawn for you, and supper prepared. I will call on you once you’re settled.”

 

His heart pounded in his chest as he was led away. Perspiration beaded on his brow.  He’d not felt so paralyzed since he was left to bleed out in the courtyard at Castle Black.  He could only pray to whatever gods might listen that Daenerys would stay her hand. But he knew one thing for certain.

 

He had to find Arya, and soon.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nyke Aegon hen lenton Targārien se Stark, hen Valyrio uēpo ānogār iksan se ēlī vali.: “I am Aegon of houses Targaryen and Stark, of the blood of old Valyria and the First Men” because in my head canon Jonno has to learn this damn language eventually. Even though he’ll butcher it worse than Tyrion.


	2. Please Say Honestly You Won’t Give Up On Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany visits Jon, and must confront what she’s done and what she feels for him.
> 
> I have reworked and republished this chapter. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come to me now  
> And lay your hands over me  
> Even if it's a lie  
> Say it will be alright  
> And I shall believe  
> I'm broken in two  
> And I know you're on to me  
> That I only come home  
> When I'm so all alone  
> But I do believe  
> That not everything is gonna be the way  
> You think it ought to be  
> It seems like every time I try to make it right  
> It all comes down on me  
> Please say honestly you won't give up on me  
> And I shall believe  
> And I shall believe  
> Open the door  
> And show me your face tonight  
> I know it's true  
> No one heals me like you  
> And you hold the key  
> Never again  
> Would I turn away from you  
> I'm so heavy tonight  
> But your love is alright  
> And I do believe  
> That not everything is gonna be the way  
> You think it ought to be  
> It seems like every time I try to make it right  
> It all comes down on me  
> Please say honestly  
> You won't give up on me  
> And I shall believe  
> I shall believe  
> And I shall believe
> 
> ~ “I Shall Believe,” Sheryl Crow

**DAENERYS**

 

Her nose wrinkled at the foul smell of charred flesh and wood, ash and sod and blood and excrement that still wafted through the air. She’d lived in crowded cities most of her life, but the odor of death was never something to which she’d become accustomed. 

 

Flanked by two of her bloodriders, Daenerys navigated the broken pavers along the promenade of the Maidenvault, and noticed the faded floral mosaic patterns. She wondered if they were original, or something the Usurper had installed. Regardless, it was remarkable how much painstaking care had once been taken to make every surface of the castle so luxurious, so beautiful, truly a shrine to her ancestors. 

 

She’d hoped that having Jon in the Red Keep would make the place feel a bit more like home, but home, as always, was elusive. It had been over a month since she’d won her victory, and even though he’d sworn his fealty - again - and remained a loyal subject by outward appearance, he felt further from her than ever. 

 

Whether it was their complicated relationship, the lingering question of his family’s fate, or their continued struggle to grapple with what she’d done to the capital, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps it was all of that to some degree.  She only knew that part of her still longed to return to the time  _ before.  _ Before they went North. Before he learned the truth. Before the throne became all she had to live for. Before, when they’d spent their nights entangled in satin sheets and one another, spilling their deepest secrets, their saddest stories, but also contemplating a future together.

After it ended, she spent more time than she should, lying awake at night, analyzing his every word and action since they’d met. She once believed him an honest man, honorable and noble, and pure of heart. To fall in love with him had been easy. Perhaps love had blinded her to his true intentions. He needed her army and her dragons for his war, and if he could get between her legs in the process, so much the better, for all men have needs. 

 

But the way he’d kissed her the night of the feast, when he allowed himself to forget, betrayed everything. The way he’d pulled her close when she declared her love, how he’d lowered his lips to hers tentatively at first, but as soon as her tongue brushed his, the hungry wolf awakened, and he was plundering her mouth and pawing at her dress, ready to fuck her over a table….

 

She held to that memory with an iron grasp. He had loved her, hadn’t he? He’d come to her on that ship, all pleading eyes and a swagger she’d not expected from the humble Northerner, knowing exactly what he wanted, and helping himself to it as he undressed her between heated kisses, carried her to the bed, and dominated her, that night, and for a month of nights thereafter. And now his child was in her belly. It had to mean  _ something _ . 

 

She missed it more than she cared to admit. They hadn’t lain together since he’d taken her in a cavern behind that grand northern waterfall, so exhilarated from his first dragon ride that he didn’t even remove her underclothes, just pushed them aside before plunging into her depths, unaware that a new life was already rooted in her womb.  Then he learned the truth of his birth, and something had broken with them. She could not fully trust that he had no designs on the throne. He could not overlook their shared blood.  

 

_ I was raised in House Stark,  _ he’d told her,  _ we don’t lay down with our own. _

 

That wasn’t entirely true, of course, for practically every noble house of Westeros had a history of such relations.  She’d discovered that his maternal grandparents were cousins, as were Tyrion’s parents. Sansa had been briefly betrothed to her Lord cousin in the Vale (maybe she still was), and no one batted an eye. For a nephew to bed an aunt was hardly scandalous, if it was for the purpose of securing lands and alliances and producing heirs. Perhaps it was the desire that vexed him.  To lay with her because they both wanted it was carnal and base, and beneath their dignity.

 

Not that it mattered anymore. She was alone, as she’d always been.  If he ever loved her, even if he still did, he would never succumb. Because now he’d seen what it meant to wake the dragon. 

 

Over the years, she’d sworn that she was not her father, and she never would be. She would  free people from their chains. She would rule with compassion and grace, not by fear of fire and blood, and her people would love her. But she’d found no love on these shores, save for what Jon had given her. And his love wasn’t enough, if it was ever true. Not enough to assuage the pain and grief at the loss of her children and advisors and friends. Of the life she should have lived, that was stolen from them both before they drew their first breaths. Cersei wasn’t responsible for all of it, but she certainly symbolized it, and in that fateful moment after the bells rang out, all Daenerys wanted was for her enemies to die screaming, seeing and tasting and smelling what was coming for them, cowering like terrified children, shitting and pissing themselves as the fire rained down upon them. 

 

Burning King’s Landing was agonizing and intoxicating at once; the power, seductive, the guilt, crushing. She’d shown Jon Snow and everyone else a side of herself she’d kept well repressed, the beast in her heart brought forth for vengeance and victory.  As she had told him in her despair on Dragonstone, while he stood dumbly like a statue, oblivious to what she needed, if she could not have love, she chose fear. And he did fear her now, the same as everyone else.

 

He had no one to blame but himself. He hadn’t cared enough for her desires or her safety to keep silent about his parentage. He dismissed her warning about what would happen once the truth was known. He didn’t believe her, because he didn’t understand people. But she did. Her life in exile, impoverished and on the run, had taught her those bitter lessons early. 

 

Her thoughts turned to Sansa Stark, that aloof girl with no warmth or kindness in her.  Jon had pleaded for her life, and Daenerys did feel a pang of sympathy for him. He still considered Sansa his sister.  Fair enough. She’d had a brother once - terrible, abusive, and cruel - but she loved him because he was her brother, and she did not want him to come to harm, until the end, anyway. It occurred to her that Viserys and Sansa weren’t so very different, both more than willing toy with the lives of their loved ones to achieve their own ends.   It was unambiguous. Sansa Stark had committed treason. And the punishment for treason was death. Daenerys knew that rooting out the weeds in her queendom would be a long, arduous process, with more ready to sprout where others were ripped out at the root, and the North was full of them. 

 

But she had not ordered the Stark girl’s execution yet, mostly because she wanted to devise the most perfect method to utterly destroy her. For Cersei Lannister, who’d taken Missandei and Rhaegal from the world, she’d leveled a city, crushing the lioness beneath the rubble of the Red Keep. For Sansa Stark, who’d taken Jon from her, in a manner of speaking….such a fate almost seemed too kind. 

 

_ Starks,  _ Dany thought bitterly,  _ they’ve caused my house nothing but trouble, it’s a pity my father didn’t finish the job. _

 

🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶

  
  


Her skirts brushed along the stones and gravel as the babe rolled in her belly, gentle as waves lapping against the seashore. She’d only started feeling him move in the last week, the final confirmation of her condition, and her right hand fell to her abdomen as the corner of her lips curled into a smile. They reached the nondescript wooden door, outside of which three Unsullied stood, expressionless and resolute as always, and that smile quickly faded.

 

Jon’s chamber was on the opposite end of the Maidenvault from her far more expansive quarters.  The original purpose of this structure made it seem the most appropriate location to keep him, for, much to her chagrin, she could hardly permit him free reign. If she knew anything, she knew that if she allowed him out of the sight of her loyal soldiers, he would make a beeline for the North, back to his treacherous family, leaving her alone again, while the people around him plotted to make theirs that for which she’d fought her whole life. It would be stupid of them to do so, for within a few flaps of Drogon’s wings, she could be back at Winterfell, and could raze it to the ground with a word.  But no one could ever accuse the Starks of doing the smart thing if they saw a row to be had. 

 

Jon had assured her that he could convince Sansa not to make trouble, but Daenerys knew that, in truth, Sansa had no regard for his wishes or his word.  She would do what she wanted to get what she wanted, and Daenerys was prepared to respond in kind. And she would not have Jon caught up in the fray, nor would she put him in a position of having to choose between one side of his family or the other.

 

Because she was certain what his choice would be.

 

Consequently, he wasn’t much more than a hostage now. He could explore the castle if he chose, so long as he had an escort, but it seemed he preferred the confines of his chamber.  The room had likely been a handmaiden or valet’s quarters at one point. There was only a small slat in the door to allow light inside, and a few narrow vents high on the walls. The amenities were spare; a featherbed, a chamber pot and basin of water, a small table where his meals sat mostly untouched, a brazier in the corner. He was attended by Dothraki women she’d ferried from Dragonstone to keep her Bloodriders company, not unfamiliar servants whose loyalty could be swayed.  They brought his meals and changes of clothes, bathed him and groomed him every few days, and they were more than happy to do it, in Dany’s observation, for Jon Snow was a pretty thing. And he looked no worse for the wear.

 

His weapons had been confiscated, and he almost seemed naked without them, but Grey Worm had insisted, and Dany had to agree. He was not even allowed a straight razor or scissors to trim his beard. There were no visitors, save her. If Arya Stark still lurked in the city, she’d made no apparent effort to see him. 

 

He only departed his quarters to walk amongst his men, with Grey Worm or one her other lieutenants glued to his side. Sometimes she would join him, to thank the Northmen for their service and at least offer the illusion that all was well between their Warden and Queen. Jon Snow played his part impressively well; she supposed he’d had plenty of practice pretending to love her for all those months. His reputation of being honest to a fault was useful under the circumstances. But once they were out of sight, they’d always part coldly.

 

She hated this. She hated the strain, the distance. She hated the resentment she felt toward him, and he to her.  She visited him daily, for at least a few minutes. They never discussed Tyrion or his family, not since he’d pleaded for his cousins’ lives. He was dutiful and measured if he ever did respond to her, but the light that had once gleamed in his eyes when she was with him now seemed extinguished. 

 

She never knocked before entering his room, preferring to catch him in whatever state he was in. She smoothed her skirts and hair, then exhaled a deep breath and opened the door. He was curled up in bed, his face turned toward the wall, but when the hinges creaked he sat up with a start. His hair was tousled, his tunic grimy, and the air was ripe with his odor. She turned to her Bloodriders and ordered a handmaid sent at once to draw his bath and bring fresh clothes. The loyal soldier nodded with understanding and hurried away. Daenerys stood in the doorway, and Jon fell to his knees before her.

 

“Your Grace,” he muttered, head bowed.

 

Patronizingly, she extended her hand to him and he kissed it quickly. She rolled her eyes and suppressed an inappropriate chuckle. This should not be amusing. It was actually quite pathetic.

 

“Rise, Jon Snow, there is no need for such formality.”

 

He did as she commanded, standing awkwardly, as if he didn’t know quite what to do with himself.  She surveyed the room and the state of it pricked her heart again. It was tidy enough, but hardly appropriate for an occupant of his status. 

 

She strode over to his bed and gathered the thick wool cover in her arms. It smelt like him, musk and winter air and, if her heightened sense of smell was correct, seed. Had he been relieving himself in his idle time?  Would he imagine her as he fisted and stroked his cock, remembering all the times he’d taken her cunt or mouth or ass? She felt a twinge in her nethers and pushed those thoughts aside. It didn’t matter. That chapter of their lives was complete.

 

She cleared her throat. “We will depart for Dragonstone in two months’ time,” she informed him, hopeful that the news would lift his spirits somewhat, for he seemed to like their ancestral home, as much as he was capable of liking any place south of The Neck.

 

“Dragonstone?”

 

“Yes, for my confinement. You’ll be much more comfortable there as well, and once the palace is rebuilt your rooms shall be as you like them.”

 

“I don’t want rooms in the Red Keep.”

 

She set the soiled blanket aside, then stood and moved over to the brazier, casually waving her hands over the flames, in and out, singeing the sleeve of her gown, but the fire made her feel alive. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his awed expression as she reminded him who she was. She pushed up her sleeve and reached into the brazier, removing a hot coal, turning it about in her hand, the heat like life itself, invigorating and slightly arousing. She wondered if her babe would share this trait with her. His father did not; he still bore scars on his right hand from a mishap with a lantern years before. It gave her a certain amount of pride that, no matter his bloodline, no matter the primacy his gender granted him, he didn’t have  _ this.  _ He never would. The fire was hers alone.

 

“I’m not talking about the Red Keep,” she said absently as she continued fingering the coal which was quickly cooling in her grasp. She placed it on the table beside the tray of breakfast he’d barely touched. She clasped her hands in front of her, a habit when she felt guarded.  “The rest of King’s Landing must be rebuilt first. The markets, the harbors, the gates, the streets. The people have lacked a proper place of worship since Cersei destroyed the Sept of Baelor. I have no personal need of another grand palace, for I grew up in alleyways and inns. The Red Keep is a symbol of the decadence that corrupted The Realm for centuries. Let it crumble to dust for all I care. We do not build a new world while clinging to vestiges of the old.”

 

She picked a grape from his plate and popped it in her mouth, savoring the sweetness. She knew she seemed sanctimonious, and knew that Jon Snow, who could barely think beyond tomorrow now that the army of the dead were vanquished, had little interest in her vision of the future. Not when he realized the cost of achieving it.

 

“What palace then?” Jon mumbled. 

 

“The palace of Summerhall. Surely you know its history.” Jon nodded slightly, and she continued. “Your father was born there, in the midst of the greatest tragedy to befall House Targaryen. I was told he used to visit the ruins in solitude, that he’d play his harp and sing to the ghosts.”

 

“I don’t sing. And I don’t need a palace either.”

 

She plucked another grape from the plate and offered one to him, but he refused. 

 

“Then what will you do? Stay with us on Dragonstone,” she rubbed her growing belly, “or take a room in a tavern in Flea Bottom?”

 

“There is no Flea Bottom anymore.”

 

She shrugged. “Fair point.” 

 

“Fair point? Is that all ya have to say for yourself?” His voice was gravelly and hard as iron.

 

“What do you want me to say?” She retorted, taken aback by his sudden insolence.

 

“I want you to tell me why!” He pounded his fist on the table and she startled, for he’d not displayed such raw emotion in months. His eyes came alive then, flashing with fiery anger, the blood of the dragon coursing through his veins. “The city had fallen! The soldiers had laid down their arms! All you had to do was wait!” 

 

His breaths came harsh and fast, his chest expanding and contracting emphatically, the taut planes tensing, drawing her gaze to visualize what was beneath the ratty tunic he wore. She forced her eyes to lock with his, lest they linger too long where they should not.

 

“Wait for what? Wait for Tyrion to complete his betrayal and smuggle his siblings out of the city?  To allow them to flee across the sea and spend the rest of their days plotting my destruction?” She rested her palms on the table top, another tell-tale sign that she was not near as sure of herself as she’d have him think. “Don’t you see? Cersei has to die, or it would never have been over.”

 

Jon drew a deep breath. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.  “Aye,  _ she  _ had to die. And I don’t mourn her passing. She was an evil woman. But you didn’t have to slaughter half of King’s Landing along with her.”  He rubbed his hand over his face and raked it through his hair, as he searched for some sign of remorse in her. “Do you even regret it? Are you sorry, at all?”

 

Tears stung behind her eyes but she refused to let them fall. If only he knew how many nights she was jolted awake, the screams of anguish ringing in her ears, echoing in her chambers, the ghosts surrounding her bed, their icy fingers reaching for her before they dissolved into ash. Further back, she recalled the shrieks of Viserys as he pleaded with her before receiving his golden crown;  the screams of Mirri Maz Dur, and Pyat Pree; of Kraznys Mo Nakloz, of the Harpies Drogon had torched in the fighting pit, and the Tarlys as they accepted their fate. Of Varys, of the Khals…..fire was her power, but also her curse. 

 

All those before had wronged her, or wronged others. She did not mourn them, did not particularly pity them, but the people….

 

_ Innocent  _ was a generous word where the capital was concerned. King’s Landing was a cesspool, full of cutthroats and whoremongers, swindlers and thieves. And even the “good” people were as capable of cruelty and violence as anyone. Besides, as Jon had observed, burning half the city certainly warned the other kingdoms of the fate that would befall them if they did not submit. She’d sent a message, even if it wasn’t calculated.

 

But people were still people, with lives and families, hopes and dreams. What she’d done to them was her greatest failure, for a Queen was meant to protect her subjects. And those who were left, she would. So long as they were faithful.

__

She sighed and turned from him, wrapping her arms around her middle. “My sorrow won’t change anything. There are no words I can utter that will satisfy you, or make you hate me any less.”

 

“I don’t hate you,” he whispered. “But I feel I don’t know you anymore. The Queen I bent the knee to, the Queen I chose and love...is kind, and compassionate. Has a good heart. Wants to build a better world. But you can’t build a better world on the bones of dead children, Dany!”

 

He sank onto the stool beside the table, and she sat opposite him, taking his hands in hers, compelling him to look her in the eye. She ran her thumb over the back of his hand, and her heart fluttered when he squeezed her hand a bit tighter.

 

“When Rhaegar was killed in battle, my father believed all hope was lost,” she began gently, though Jon flinched at the mention of his dead sire. “He sent my mother and Viserys to Dragonstone, and then he waited. Waited to die, for there was nothing more he could do. He knew his men fought for Rhaegar, not for him. Their cause had died with their prince. Then the Lannister army arrived at the city gates, and my father believed that Lord Tywin had finally come to answer his call. To fulfill his duty to his King. To safeguard the city and put down the rebellion once and for all. So he ordered the gates opened. And what happened then?”

 

Jon took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a moment, as he always did when there was something he’d rather avoid talking about.

 

“They sacked the city.”

 

“Yes, they sacked the city. They didn’t ride through the streets tossing rose petals and candy. They put to the sword every man, woman, and child between the gates and the Red Keep. When they arrived in the throne room, my father was already dead on the floor, thanks to Jaime Lannister. But that was not enough for Lord Tywin, no. So he ordered his men to locate Rhaegar’s children. Do you know what happened when they were found?”

 

“They killed them.” Jon’s eyes squeezed tighter, his brow furrowing, the words like acid on his tongue.

 

“Killed,” Daenerys repeated. “A gentle word. They found Princess Rhaenys cowering under her father’s bed. They stabbed her so many times, she more closely resembled a mutton chop that had been tossed to the hounds, than a little girl. And Prince Aegon - your brother, Jon - they ripped him from his mother’s arms, and bashed his head against the wall. And they were still covered with the blood and brains of those children when they raped Elia Martell, and split her in two with a sword. By the time the three of them were wrapped in crimson Lannister cloaks, and placed at the foot of the Iron Throne as tribute to the new king, there was little remaining to identify them as  _ human.  _ But do you think the people were so disgusted by the murders of their little Prince and Princess that they rejected Robert? Did they turn their support to Viserys instead, who was the heir by right, until you were born? They did not. They bent the knee, and went about their lives, because they knew, if they dared not, it would be their children next.”

 

Fat tears rolled down Jon’s cheeks. They had never discussed his siblings - his  _ real  _ siblings - but for the first time she realized that their fates were not lost on him, and that, in some way, he blamed himself for it, or he grieved the family he would never know. Perhaps it was both. 

 

He shuddered and withdrew his hand from hers. “We’re supposed to be different,” he said hoarsely, his Northern accent thickening. “We’re supposed to be better.”

 

_ We’re,  _ he said. A flicker of hope sparked in her heart. It had been so long since he’d spoken that way, probably not since that day at the waterfall, when they mused about the possibility of an entirely different future, but a future  _ together. _

 

“We will be,” she said gently, recapturing his hand, which was limp in hers. “In our reign. But winning and reigning are entirely different matters, and not the wisest of Maesters nor the most valiant battle commanders have ever quite worked out how to win a war without spilling innocent blood. You and Tyrion would have preferred that I allow thousands of children to die slowly of starvation and disease, or to be torn apart in food riots. Death was inevitable,no matter what.”

 

“It doesn’t have to be.”

 

Daenerys reached up and stroked his cheek, tilting his chin, forcing his eyes to meet hers.

 

“You want to believe that, because you’re good, and kind. I used to believe it, because I thought I was, too.”

 

“You are!” His voice rose, and he clasped his hand around hers, staring at her solemnly. “You are, I know it! You were grieving and angry. You wanted the world to hurt as much as you were. But that’s not _ you _ , Dany. You’re not evil. You’re not mad. You’re not cruel. And you have to show them now, show them what you really are, a merciful and just woman, who cares about them and wants to help them! Fuck Tyrion, fuck my sister, prove them wrong! Show them why thousands in Essos chose you! Show them why  _ they _ should choose you!”

 

His beautiful eyes glittered with moisture, piercing her heart. Damn him that he still held so much sway over her, that he could manipulate her emotions, make her question herself.

 

“I don’t know how to do that,” she admitted ruefully. “How Jon?  How?” 

 

_ How could anyone ever forgive me?  _

 

_ How could I forgive myself?” _

 

“I don’t know,” he muttered as he released her hand again, “but we’ll work it out. Together.”

 

A knock at the door signaled the handmaid's arrival to bathe and dress him, and the wall she’d erected around her heart that had begun to crack was sealed again. She bade the woman to enter and rose from the table, silently cursing that she’d allowed Jon in again, no matter how briefly.

 

“I’ll come see you again soon,” she said as she placed a quick kiss on his forehead. 

 

She practically bolted from the room then, cantering down the promenade, nearly stumbling a few times when she took a false step over a broken paver. She returned to her chamber, breathing heavily, head spinning, heart racing. 

 

She summoned Grey Worm, who’d come to fulfill so many roles since the city had fallen. There really was no one else whose loyalty she would never doubt, ever.

 

_ “Turgo Nudha, maghagon mirri Voktīkudos  ivestragon zirȳ pōja dāria jorrāelagon iā udir lēda zirȳ,”  _ she commanded.

 

Silently he nodded and disappeared like a phantom.

 

_ The work begins, Jon Snow,  _ she thought, as she sat down on her bed and cradled her belly.  _ We will set this city to rights. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Turgo Nudho, maghagon mirri Voktīkudos ivestragon zirȳ pōja dāria jorrāelagon iā udir lēda zirȳ = Dany wants Grey Worm to bring some septas before her. There are matters to discuss.
> 
> So I’m aware that the characterization of Jon here might not be your cup of tea, but let’s face it, he has no power in this situation because Dany is still Dany and not a complete idiot. She acknowledges what he is in the situation and she doesn’t love it, but feels she has no choice, because she doesn’t know if she can really trust him, and he’s broken her heart. I know Jon isn’t weak, though he may seem like it in this chapter. He’s not. But he’s pretty defeated because he is distraught over what Dany has done, he’s torn between love and loyalty to her and to the Starks, and this Jon is actually trying to pull her back from the brink instead of just accepting other people’s advice about what he should do. For her part, Dany doesn’t want to be alone, but she also needs to keep him close to keep the North in line and squash any further attempts to put him on the throne and get rid of her. I know most readers are smart enough to infer this without it being explained, but based on comments I’ve seen on works by other authors, that isn’t always the case.


	3. Are We In The Clear Yet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany does Dany things, and Jon is....kinda horny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back! Thanks for reading! So Jon is getting more confident in his boundaries with Dany and is starting to remember how much he loves her. Doesn’t mean he’ll forget what she did, but neither will she. Jon in this chapter is a little flirtatious. We’ll see how that goes for him.
> 
> I have reworked and republished this chapter.

**JON**

 

He nearly jumped out of his skin when the door opened, the loud creak of rusty hinges shattering the silence of a reasonably peaceful sleep. It was dark, but these cramped quarters were almost always dark, like the bowels of a ship.  The fire in the brazier had reduced to soft orange embers, a glow that reminded him of all the times he and Dany laid abed before sunrise, those quiet, intimate moments of contentment and peace, tangled in one another, the troubles of the world forgotten outside their door. How she seemed to smile in her sleep. How she would feather her fingers over his scars. How her body so perfectly tucked into his, like she was fashioned to be held by him and no other. How alluring she looked with her braids loose and disheveled, her delicate skin bearing the evidence of his ardent kisses.

 

How he’d fucked it all to hell.

 

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and they came into focus upon her small form silhouetted in the doorway. He scrambled off the bed and adjusted his breeches and tunic, falling to one knee and bowing his head in reverence, trying to stay calm. He hadn’t seen her in a few days, which was odd. He looked forward to her visits, even when the topics of conversation were sparse, because he missed her. 

 

Their last encounter had been promising; he could see her uncertainty, feel her pain, and he knew that she had not absolved herself of that terrible day when King’s Landing burned. If she could still feel grief or guilt or  _ anything,  _ really, it meant that Daenerys was still there, the Daenerys he knew, who allowed him to mine for dragonglass and who sacrificed one of her sons to save him; who welcomed him into her bed and made a child with him. The Daenerys who saved him again, even though he was a threat to her crown, who all but begged him to love her still, as if he did not.  Somewhere, behind the wall she’d constructed between them, the wall on which, in truth, he’d laid just as many stones, he prayed he could find her again, and draw her out.

 

“Forgive me Your Grace,” he mumbled, “I didn’t realize the lateness of the hour.”

 

As if he had much to do but sleep. Sleep and think and brood and contemplate everything he should have done differently; to remember what it was to have her beneath him or above him, being inside her, holding her, loving her, everything was about  _ her _ , no matter how twisted it was.

 

Daenerys chuckled then thrust a bundle of clothes in his unexpectant arms. “It’s only daybreak.  You’ll need to wash up and put this on. You’re going to accompany me.”

 

“Where are we going?”  _ Not that it matters _ ,  _ not that I have a choice. _

 

“To break our fast.”

 

“I’m not hungry.”

 

“Of course you are,” she chided, “and you’re proving nothing allowing yourself to waste away.”

 

She was right. He’d not taken a proper meal in weeks. To keep from fainting, he’d relent and eat a morsel or two from the trays of food her handmaidens brought him thrice daily. He missed the food in the North; the hearty stews with turnips and carrots, the ale she complained tasted like piss, the kidney pies Old Nan used to make. Offerings at the Wall were less variant. Lots of varmints and the occasional deer, and potatoes, always potatoes, but sometimes cabbage, which he thought smelled of dirty feet, but ate anyway. In the real North, apart from Mance’s camp, it was worse, foraging for roots and berries under the snow and ice, or sometimes finding a frozen elk carcass, but he’d sooner eat like a scavenger than try to enjoy the strange flavors the South had to offer. It was one small way he could keep himself and defy his Queen, and far more satisfying than the denial of his body to her, for that was every bit as torturous for him.

 

He missed her touch, her lips on his, her hair hanging in his face like a silver curtain. The weight of her breasts in his palms, the salty-sweet taste of her cum when he feasted between her thighs. Even if he didn’t want to think about it, she haunted his dreams, so much that he’d awoken more than once with his breeches and bedclothes damp with sweat and seed.

 

She looked like a banquet today, and he was a man starved in more ways than one. He’d grown past caring that she was of his blood. She carried his child, and once the cow was milked there was no shoving the cream back up her udders. It was madness, or a cruel trick of the gods; he knew that. She was his aunt but the mother of his child. She’d killed tens of thousands with impunity, but he’d still fall on his own blade if she asked it of him. She had him powerless in every way, and he hated and loved her at once. What harm would it do, to give in to it, to do something for  _ himself _ for once?

 

But it wasn’t for once. When he’d gone to her on that ship, he did so selfishly, and with one hit he was addicted. And here they were now, all these months hence, with King’s Landing in ruin around them. 

 

Mercifully, she interrupted his reverie. “I’ll be outside, unless you need assistance.”

 

A thought sparked quickly, so before he could stop himself, he followed it, jerking his tunic over his head, baring himself to her, self-satisfied at the effect he knew he had on her.

 

“I’ve got it,” he husked, tossing his tunic aside. His eyes never left hers as his fingers fell to the laces of his trousers, untying them slower than necessary, taunting her. He saw the hitch of her breath and the blush touching her cheeks, and he held her gaze ruthlessly, until she narrowed her eyes.

 

“Very well. Be quick about it.” Obviously flustered, she turned on her heel and left, slamming the door behind her.

 

He chuckled. His cock and balls stirred as he entertained notions of what would have happened if she’d stayed. He knew he’d have had her bent over the table, or flat on her back on his bed, in two heartbeats, finishing something he’d regretfully interrupted back in his room at Winterfell. But he quickly dislodged that thought; it was different now, no matter what he wanted, and he couldn’t bring himself to try to bed her. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Not when so much had been lost between them. And, if he was honest, he wasn’t sure how that would work anyway, with her belly full of his child.

 

He washed and dressed quickly and stepped outside. Morning light burned his eyes and he squinted until they could adjust. Daenerys looked annoyed or anxious; he wasn’t sure. As usual, she was flanked by half a dozen guards, Unsullied and Dothraki, at the ready to run him through with a nod of her head if she willed it. It was awe inspiring that someone so small of stature, so young, so delicate by outward appearance, was so commanding and powerful. He kind of loved her more for it. She was a force of nature, he had to give her that.

 

“Do you like it?” She asked, gesturing at his garb. 

 

These weren’t his clothes. Usually, when she took him out of his box to put him on public display, he wore his old gambeson and trousers, and sometimes his gorget and cloak, and he was permitted to carry Longclaw so long as it was kept sheathed, though he was always acutely aware of the eyes of her guards boring holes into him if he even dared touch the pommel out of habit. 

 

Today he wore a nondescript grey doublet with darker grey cape that draped over his right shoulder and hung to his waist, secured by a brooch of three interconnected dragons. His black wool trousers and leather boots were brand new, stiff and uncomfortable. 

 

He felt strange in this attire, almost like a proper prince, and for the quickest moment he imagined what it would have been like to grow up this way, trueborn royalty, the heir to a great dynasty (or at least the spare, had the elder Aegon lived), with his beautiful silver princess at his side, but then Lord Eddard’s last words to him halted the fantasy.

 

_ You might not have my name, but you have my blood. _

 

_ I’m not a Stark. _

 

_ But I am. _

 

_ You don’t have to choose….. _

 

Besides the colors, there was nothing to identify him as a Stark. She only allowed  _ that _ when it came time to walk amongst his men. Her bitterness toward the North (more accurately, his family) was still a fresh taste in her mouth, and she seemed determined to leave no remnant of it in him.

 

She cleared her throat, bringing his attention back to her.

 

“It’s itchy,” he told her, tugging at his collar. She rolled her eyes, knowing full well he was only trying to rouse her.  “New dress?”

              She smoothed her hands over the black skirts. She always wore black these days.

 

_               It was always my color…. _

 

              “My garments are ill-fitting of late,” she replied as she rested her hand on her belly. 

 

              “It suits you.”

 

              “The dress, or the pregnancy?”

 

              “Both. You look….luminous. Healthy.”  _ Happy, almost. _

 

              “Fat, you mean.”

 

Her tummy appeared to have swelled twofold the last time he saw her a few days ago, and in spite of himself, his heart filled with pride and his cock twitched. There was something so arousing about knowing that his seed had taken hold in her womb, that she nurtured his babe within her own body. Something that made him feel more like a man than the first time he’d had a woman or wielded a sword in battle. He wanted to put his hand on her bump, but refrained. They weren’t  _ there;  _ not yet.

 

“Beautiful,” he countered.  _ Edible. Fuckable.  _ He fisted his hands, trying to quell the wicked thought.

 

A small smile passed between them, reminiscent of what they once had, and they began their walk along the rutted pathway.

 

“Are you nervous?” He motioned to her belly. They hadn’t really talked about it.

 

“A little.”  He noticed her lips curled downward to a frown. “I lost my first, or the witch killed him in my womb. And….my mother….and….Lyanna Stark…..”

 

He understood what she avoided speaking aloud, for it would be a lie to say the same fear hadn’t troubled his mind in all those hours he had nothing to do but think and worry.

 

“Don’t you ever think that, Dany,” he said as he stopped short and touched her arm. The immediate flinch of her watchful guards compelled him to release her. Instead he inched closer to her and she inclined her head towards her men to call them off. 

 

Tentatively, he reached for her hand and drew it to his heart, pulling her closer still, face to face with him. “You’re going to birth a perfect boy, fat and red faced and squalling. And you’re gonna rock him to sleep and suckle him, you’re gonna speak to him in Valyrian so can’t understand what you’re sayin.’ You’re gonna teach him to ride Drogon, and argue that he’s too young when I give him his first sword….”

 

He trailed off, realizing how much time must have spent daydreaming of this, before he knew she was with child, even before the first time they made love. He’d all but wagered her in the Dragon Pit that her barrenness was imagined, and made it perfectly clear that he was the man meant to prove her wrong. Then his eyes clouded as he thought of having more; some with silver hair, some with black, but all with his unruly curls and her radiant smile. They’d probably lack for height when full grown, but they could be impressive in other ways, as fierce and magnetic as their mother, and as honorable as he hoped he was; as stubborn as mules like them both, as passionate as the dragon’s blood that coursed in their veins. The blood of Old Valyria, and the First Men too.

 

They could be a family. He didn’t care about carrying on the Targaryen name for centuries to come. Really, all he wanted was a normal and quiet life with her and their children, as many as she’d allow him to give her.  

 

_ We could stay a thousand years, and no one would find us. _

 

She smiled at him then, the first real smile he’d seen from her since….he honestly couldn’t remember. She linked her arm with his, and urged him to continue on their path, and his heart felt lighter than it had in a very long time.

 

He was puzzled once he realized they’d exited the gates of the Keep altogether - or what was left of the gates, anyway - to follow the northward path into the city.

 

“Where are we goin’?” He repeated his question from earlier as obviously some details had been withheld. 

 

“The Street of Sisters. A new shelter has been erected near the Dragon Pit. I’ve been speaking to the Septas who oversee the shelters throughout the city, to find out what they need.”

 

It made him nervous.  For as much as he still loved her, he didn’t trust her any more than she trusted him now. That would take time to rebuild, probably longer than it would take to rebuild this wretched city, and it troubled him, for he knew he shouldered most of the blame. He didn’t burn King’s Landing himself, but he’d helped set the stage for it. He’d been impotent when she needed him most, a useless, bumbling fool, more concerned with his parentage and guilty conscience than her fragile emotional state following the losses of Ser Jorah, Missandei, and her dragons. If he’d been stronger, more attuned, if he’d spoken the words she needed to hear, would it have gone differently? He supposed he’d never know.

 

His anxiety deepened. “And?”

 

“And, we’re going to go serve the people bland porridge and stale bread. We’re going to eat with them, walk amongst them, speak to them. Listen to their concerns. Show them that House Targaryen cares for their plight. For which, I acknowledge, I am partly responsible.”

 

He had to bite his tongue hard.  _ Partly?  _

 

“Many of these people were homeless or starving long before I came to these shores,” she continued. “They must see that their Queen actually intends to do something about it.”

 

“An admirable idea…..but is it wise?”

 

She cast a side-eyed glare. “Wise? You were the one who advised me to show the people who I am.”

 

“I know that,” he groaned, “but these people are hungry and frightened and angry. And angry snakes lash out. Is it safe?”

 

“They aren’t snakes, Jon. The  _ snakes _ live behind the walls of northern castles.” She glowered at him pointedly, sending a chill down his spine. “The snakes are the advisors I trusted who betrayed me. These are just  _ people _ , who need a helping hand and a caring ear. In Essos I did not have the love of the nobility, because theirs was the world I sought to upturn. But the common folk….I understood them. I offered my love, and they returned it. Westeros is no different in that regard, apart from that wasteland you call home, anyway. I know I cannot rule with fear alone. They must see that I love them, as my brother did before me, and they will not forget it.”

 

“I’m sure they won’t. But how do you know….”

 

“Weapons are confiscated when people are admitted to the shelters,” she interrupted, “and my men will be there for our protection.”

 

“ _ I  _ can protect us, that’s not the point!” 

 

She pulled her arm from his then, and halted. “I really do not intend to discuss this further, Jon Snow. We will be perfectly safe, you’ll see. But if you’re too frightened of the rabble,  _ My Lord…. _ ”

 

She hitched the hem of her dress and quickened her pace to a brisk and purposeful stride. All he could do was huff an exasperated breath and continue along, though they spoke no more the rest of the way.

 

_ Fuck,  _ he thought. One step forward, two steps back. Now he remembered why he was a man of few words, for everything he said always seemed wrong. 

 

🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶

 

He thought the courtyard of Winterfell was crowded when refugees from the countryside arrived. Begrudgingly he’d had to admit that Sansa did a commendable  job of organizing the care and feeding of the people, for it had been a mostly orderly affair, serving warm stew and bread and ale while they all awaited certain death.

 

He was not prepared for this chaos.

 

The first time he’d seen the city his namesake founded, Tyrion told him that over a million people resided here, and he’d been slack jawed at the notion that anyone would choose to live that way, stacked atop each other, with no space to breathe. To his eyes it appeared that at least half that population was crammed into every nook and cranny of this makeshift shelter. It was noisy to the point of testing his sanity, he’d been elbowed or bumped into more times than he could count, and his mood darkened by the second. The last time he felt so stifled, he’d been fighting his way out of the crush of a sea of bodies against the Boltons.

 

But Daenerys relished it. He watched with great admiration as she mingled with the broken and the starving, the frightened and the grieving - men, women, and children alike. He stood beside her in the serving line, dishing out bowls of porridge that looked more like pig slop, and she regarded each and every one as though he or she was the only person in the world for those few seconds. What impressed him more was that it was genuine; he could see it in the quirk of her lips, the arch of her brows, the tell-tale redness rimming her eyes with each nameless, pitiful soul she served or spoke to or touched. 

 

She held babes in her arms who fingered her silver hair as she cooed at them. She was tactile, attentive, and absorbed every word of every tragic story, allowing her own tears to fall when she was overcome. For their part, the people were either in a daze, or awestruck. Oddly, it seemed that many of the people did not associate this Dragon Queen with the death and misery around them; many blamed Cersei, and those who did hold Daenerys responsible at least had the good sense to show respect, or avoid her altogether.

 

It occurred to Jon just how sheltered his upbringing had been, and even the hardship he endured at Castle Black and beyond the Wall paled in comparison to what these people had lived every day of their lives. But Daenerys understood, because she’d grown up as one of them. She had a name and nothing more as a child, never knew security, or safety, or love, and it stood to reason that once she thought she found those things in him, she was not apt to let it go. What a damned fool he’d been, to make her believe it was lost, as she’d lost everything else.

 

They supped with a small group of women and children, and some Septas as well. The porridge was runny and awful, but he ate every bite, famished as he was.  All the while he watched as Daenerys listened and learned, comforted and reassured. He could see the wheels turning in her head, about the enormity of the work ahead, and how she could set things right.

 

After they ate, they roamed through the crowds, a Septa called Myana at their side and the guards close by, taking time to greet those of Myana’s choosing. Jon knew enough of politics to understand that they’d been selected carefully, to maximize goodwill and visibility. But Daenerys related to these people with such authenticity, he couldn’t be cynical for long.

 

They approached a girl, probably younger than Arya, with mousy brown hair and blue-grey eyes. She nearly equalled Jon in height, and had bandages covering burn injuries on her neck.  Septa Myana introduced the girl as Rhaella, and Dany’s eyes welled with tears at the sound of the name.

 

“That was my mother’s name,” she said sweetly, clasping the girl’s hand in hers. Rhaella flinched, and Daenerys released her, dismayed.

 

“I know, Your Grace,” Rhaella sputtered. “My Papa named me for her.”

 

Jon saw Daenerys’ face brighten, and his did too. He knew almost nothing about his father’s side of the family, as the legacy had been tainted by his grandfather’s madness and cruelty. He was loathe to even think of the man as any blood of his. But Aerys II Targaryen had a wife, children, grandchildren….there was more to House Targaryen than the Mad King. There was more to Dany too, more than she’d shown recently, but it was truer today than it had been for a while. 

 

“That’s lovely,” he interjected. “Did he ever tell you why?”

 

Rhaella nodded nervously. “Papa used to labor in a potter’s shop. But soon he was throwing pots and urns that were better than his master’s, fetched a higher price. The potter took credit for my papa’s pieces and kept the money for himself. But one day the Queen came to the shop and saw an urn she liked. It was one of papa’s, and she knew the potter wouldn’t pay him his fair share. So she snuck a ruby in his pocket when his master wasn’t lookin.’ Papa sold it and got enough money to start his own shop. He married my mum a few years on. Said he owed his life to the Queen. So when they had me, they called me after her.”

 

A lump formed in Jon’s throat, and he glanced at Dany, who was barely holding back her tears.

 

“Is...is your papa here?” she asked, though by the look on her face, Jon knew she dreaded the answer.

 

“No Your Grace.” Rhaella cast her eyes downward, fixating on her booted feet. “We had a shop on the Street of Silk and lived above. We sold housewares, plates and bowls and silver and the like. Papa was trying to protect the shop when….when the dragon came.”

 

The color bled from Dany’s face.  _ Good,  _ Jon thought, though it pained him.  _ She needs to see the real consequences of what she’s done.  _ As if she weren’t already aware. But he had to admit it took some courage on her part to own to it, to put actual faces to the thousands of nameless she’d incinerated.

 

“I...I am very sorry, Rhaella,” Daenerys said hoarsely, resting one hand on the girl’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “What of your mother?”

 

“She died when I was five, tryin’ to birth my little brother, Your Grace. He didn’t make it either.”

 

“I’m terribly sorry. My mother also died in childbirth, with me. It’s a difficult thing for a girl, growing up with no mother. How old are you, sweetling?”

 

“Fourteen, Your Grace.”  The girl fumbled with her tattered skirts but still could not meet Dany’s eye, though she did regard the guards nervously, and Jon as well.

 

“And where would you go, if you could go anywhere?”

 

“I...I don’t know Your Grace. I’ve only left King’s Landing once before. Traveled with Papa to Pentos.”

 

“Pentos. A great city. I lived there for a time. I was married there, in fact, but that was another lifetime. We will arrange fair payment to you for the value of your shop. I cannot return your mother and father to you, but I can see to it that you have the means to start a new life, when you are of age. If it is Pentos you choose, I shall send word to my friend Illiryo Mopatis to receive you in his manse, until you can get settled.”

 

Jon was in awe of the ease with which Daenerys drew people in and the kindness she showed, even if it wasn’t entirely selfless. He’d not really seen this side of her - the politician, the humanitarian - and the more he witnessed, the harder he fell. 

 

_ This was why they chose her. This is why  _ I  _ chose her. _

 

They were ready to move on when Dany turned back to the girl, and Jon noticed her playing at the ring she always wore on her left pointer finger. She took a deep breath, her shoulders falling, and removed the ring.

 

“This belonged to my mother,” she said, placing it in Rhaella’s hand and closing her fingers around it. “It’s all I have of her. But I want you to have it.”

 

“Y...Your Grace, I….”

 

“Take good care of it. I want to see it on your finger when I visit you in Pentos someday.”

 

And without further word, they left the girl standing in her spot, her mouth agape.  Dany wiped tears from her face with the heel of her hand, and Jon wrapped his arm around her shoulders. He wanted to kiss her, but instead he smiled sadly. 

 

Next they came to a boy, bony with night-black hair and eyes, lashes thick as paintbrushes, and bushy eyebrows that nearly met at the bridge of his nose. He was seemingly uninjured, but obviously emaciated. He reminded Jon a bit of himself as a child, thin and wiry and short for his age.

 

          “And who are you?” Daenerys asked.

 

          “Mikal,” the boy replied, and Jon suppressed a smile at the lad’s lack of propriety despite the Septa’s scolding glare.

 

“And how old are you Mikal?”

 

“I’m eleven.”

 

“And your family?” Daenerys prodded, leaning down to him and passing him a sweet, which he eagerly shoved in his mouth, though it was difficult for him to chew since he was missing several teeth.

 

“I ain’t got none,” Mikal shrugged. “Never knew me dad. Me mum died when I was little. Lived at the orphanage until they put me out because I got too old!”

 

Daenerys drew a sharp breath and shot Septa Myana a chilly look.

 

“Some of the orphanages don’t keep children older than ten years, Your Grace,” the Septa explained, and Jon saw the fear in the woman’s eyes as Daenerys’ frown deepened. “There is inadequate space and resources.”

 

“So they’re just turned out into the street and left to their own devices?”

 

_ Oh dear, here we go,  _ Jon thought, though he felt for the boy.

 

“Many would be recruited to the Night’s Watch in the past,” the Septa began.

 

“So orphan boys are penalized for having no parents by being carted off to the Wall alongside rapists and murderers? It seems a convenient arrangement, wouldn’t you say, Septa?”

 

“I was in the Night’s Watch,” Jon interrupted, to diffuse Daenerys’ temper, and because he felt a strange kinship with the boy. 

 

“You were?” Mikal’s eyes widened.

 

“He was,” Dany replied, and he breathed a sigh of relief that he’d diverted her attention. “This is Jon. He’s a….he’s my friend.”

 

Jon nearly snorted. “Her friend,” he echoed.

 

“You a Knight?” Mikal asked, his eyes shining with curiosity.

 

“Not a Knight, but he is the best swordsman in the entire Seven Kingdoms,” Daenerys indulged the boy. “He has a sword of Valyrian Steel which he used to slay the White Walkers. Do you know of the White Walkers, Mikal?”

 

“N..No.”

 

“Well he shall have to tell you about them some day. Would you like that?”

 

Mikal nodded excitedly, enchanted, and Jon’s heart softened more, though it was not lost on him that no one south of the Neck had any idea what had happened in the North. Perhaps they’d never know. As Daenerys told him when he first bent the knee, you had to see it, and now there was nothing to see. And he recalled then that she was, in large part, to thank for that.

“You’re a brave lad Mikal. I can see it. You would make a great Knight one day. But first you must learn to wield a sword. Would you like Jon to teach you?”

 

“Could you?” The boy shifted his dark eyes to Jon.

 

“I suppose so.”

 

That was not exactly what Jon had in mind, as he sadly recalled the last young boy he’d trained, the boy who shoved a knife in his heart, the boy he’d hanged with the rest who betrayed him, and it chilled him to his core. 

 

“Then it’s settled! You will come with us to Dragonstone and begin your training with Jon. Though…” she leaned closer to the boy, pulling Jon with her, whispering low, “his name isn’t really Jon.”

 

“What is it then?” 

 

Jon’s heart flipped, for he didn’t know what Dany intended, but the boy’s excitement eased his nerves.

 

“I’ll make you a deal. When you can knock me in the dirt, I’ll tell you my name.”

 

Mikal beamed a half toothless grin and nodded again.

 

🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶

 

It was well past midday that they departed and Jon felt he could breathe again. His heart clenched when Daenerys had clamored to a tabletop and delivered some remarks. For the most part she was well-received as the people applauded and cheered and shouted “Your Grace.” It baffled him that people who’d lost so much by her doing were so willing to laud and praise her, but this was only one shelter. Others may be different, especially in more devastated parts of the city. There was a strategy at play, obviously, but she insisted that they’d reach them all before the departure to Dragonstone. He understood now why her own people called her  _ mhysa.  _ She was born for this. Still, anxiety plagued him at the thought of doing this for a less receptive audience.

 

She’d promised food, first off. Shipments from Dorne,  the Reach and Stormlands were in route, and what this continent could not provide, her other one would. King’s Landing would be rebuilt, each resident compensated no less than one hundred gold dragons if they could prove a claim for loss of property or business, or thirty just for their trouble otherwise. It would be insulting to place any monetary value on the lives of dead family members, so she declined to do so, for it could never be enough. But she promised increased funding and resources for all the shelters and orphanages, provided that children not be discharged before four and ten years of age. She would make education available to all with a desire to learn. Men and women with able bodies would be paid fair wages to learn trades and skills necessary to rebuild the city, or they would have the opportunity to train as soldiers and fortify her armies.

 

It was an aspirational agenda, to be sure, and she couldn’t accomplish it alone. She had no Small Council, as Tyrion still rotted in a cell, and the rest were dead. And he had no idea what role he had to play.

 

Technically, Jon was still the Warden of the North, but he was increasingly certain he’d never set foot in Winterfell again. He wasn’t the King, even though the title was his by right. He didn’t want a royal title at all. Right now he was little more than her nephew and her child’s father, though that information was known to few. Where did he fit in her reign?

 

Where did he fit in her  _ life _ ?

 

On the journey from Dragonstone to Winterfell, he’d dared to entertain the notion of asking for her hand. It would have solidified the alliance with the North, and he was in love with her besides, but he still somehow felt himself unworthy, and was too shy to broach the topic with Ser Davos, who had encouraged his  _ affection _ for the Queen more than anyone.

 

_ Davos.  _ He hadn’t seen the old smuggler in weeks. Davos was unrefined and uneducated, barely literate even, and was shit with a sword to boot, but he had more sense than anyone Jon knew. He smiled at his own ingenuity.

 

“Your Grace,” he interrupted Daenerys, who was chattering to one of her guards as they made their way back to the Red Keep.

 

“Lord Snow,” she replied with a knowing arch of her brow. She was aware how well the day had gone, and was quite pleased with herself, all things considered.

 

He sauntered toward her, his eyes affixed to hers, calling on every bit of charm he possessed. He noticed the bobble of her throat as she swallowed a breath, tongue flicking to wet her lips. Was it really going to be so easy? Probably not.  They couldn’t fuck their way through everything, tempting as it may be. Though, if he didn’t have her soon, he was sure to burst with frustration.

 

He took her hand in his and raised it to his heart, discreetly massaging her wrist, and his cock immediately snapped to attention.

 

“I wonder if I may accompany you to your chamber? There are many matters we must discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the OG Olenna Tyrell for the cow and udder quote. I just can’t improve on that.


	4. The Truth Is, I Miss You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their public appearance, Dany and Jon discuss business....and their relationship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bitch had kicked my ass but I got it. I have significantly reworked the first three chapters to fall more in line with this one.
> 
> Dany is all over the place, I’m just gonna say. And it’s fair. Because she still loves this doe-Eyed dolt and can’t seem to quit him. Doesn’t mean she won’t try.
> 
> Thanks for your patience and for reading.

**DAENERYS**

 

The morning went better than Daenerys could have hoped.

 

She and Jon had walked amongst the people, the near-perfect image of young royalty, come to save the Realm from itself. She'd often pictured the two of them together that way, revelling in the love of their people, their future so bright and promising. 

 

But that was before she knew who he really was. 

 

Before he broke her heart.

 

_  Before he betrayed you. _

 

The haunting voice was always there to whisper foul things to her when dared to lower her guard with him. He wasn’t to be trusted. He would only hurt her.  He would be her downfall. Sometimes the voice was her own, but it often sounded eerily like Viserys, his forked tongue hissing that everything she’d lost was her fault alone, that she didn’t deserve to be happy or loved, that she was just a half-breed’s slut. 

 

Sometimes it was the voice of the dragon, her true nature, and the dragon had been awakened, never to be dormant again.

 

And who could ever really love a dragon? 

 

_ No one _ , the serpentine voice jeered,  _ not even another dragon.  Not that he’s a real dragon _ .  _ Not a true Targaryen. Not him, not his bastard spawn inside you. Only you, sweet sister. You are all that is left, and you must be true to your name. _

 

But to which name?  She had so many:  _ Stormborn _ .  _ Yer Jalan Atthirari Anni. Khaleesi _ .  _ Mhysa _ .  _ Breaker of Chains. Mother of Dragons. The Dragon Queen.  _

 

_ Dany. _

 

Dany was the scared little girl in the pall of Viserys’ rage and abuse. But Dany had also been Jon Snow’s lover, his refuge, and from his lips the name bore no contempt nor painful memories. He still called her that, especially when he wanted to stir her affections. He could manipulate her quite deftly, she had to hand it to him. 

 

And she still burned for him. The month or so they’d spent bedding one another was the most pleasurable of her life. She’d been desperately in love with him, and so happy. But it made her weak. Vulnerable. Foolish. And ultimately it nearly broke her. She could never surrender herself to him in that way again. Not when she still loved him. Not until all those fanciful notions of home and belonging and being a true family were purged from her heart. 

 

After the babe was born, perhaps she’d find another way to scratch that itch, for she was still a virile woman. But it couldn’t be Jon. Not anymore, because to love was to lose. She’d love her child; there was no choice in that. But no one else. No matter how many times he gazed at her with those enchanting brown eyes, or smiled so softly, or cupped her face in his hands. No matter how beautiful he was, how kind and tender, or what a loving father he would be. She was the conqueror, not the conquest. A sad reality, but it was what it was.

 

Nevertheless, was glad to have him at her side this day.

 

It was a difficult thing, to finally look upon the faces of those whose lives she meant to save, but in her rage and grief had destroyed. Many of them were street urchins to begin with, starved and homeless, uneducated and exploited. But she’d not made their  lives any better or more secure by seizing the city and the crown. Not when they were crammed into shelters, sleeping on straw-covered floors and eating slop, conditions not fit for farm animals.

 

Daenerys absently brushed her left thumb over the top of her first finger, where her mother’s ring had been, as she wished she could shelter them all herself, feed them and clothe them and tuck them into featherbeds at night, kiss their foreheads and sing to them, and assure them that the world would be better soon. 

 

But there were so many. Men, women, and children….. _ gods, the children _ ……the people may have shown their favor, but she was disgusted with herself. This must be how Jon saw her now; a murderess, a madwoman, a slayer of innocents, no better than her father after all.   

 

_ It was necessary,  _ the snake sibilated as he slithered through her thoughts.  _ You did what all conquerors do. What are a few wretched lives compared to victory? You’ve always known the cost, sweet sister. _

 

Her hand instinctively fell to her belly. Her heart seized at the thought, and the air caught in her lungs as heat flashed over her, and she feared she may collapse into Jon’s arms. She squeezed her eyes closed as she willed the voice silent.

 

_ They’ll all come to see you for what you are. _

 

_ I hope I deserve it….. _

 

_ You do. _

 

They arrived at her chamber door, two Unsullied guards standing watch, awaiting her assurance that Jon could enter.  He eyed the guards warily as he crossed the threshold. It amused her that he tried to seem unimpressed by her eunuchs, but she knew he’d seen them in action enough to understand that a cock wasn’t required for a man to be lethal, and as valiant a fighter as he was, any one of them would be a difficult opponent, let alone two or more. For a moment, that humorous thought held the darker ones at bay, but as soon as the door closed, leaving them alone, she felt ill at ease.

 

Her temporary room was fairly grand, with a high arched ceiling and terra-cotta walls. It wasn’t a royal chamber, or at least not in the eyes of a Queen who concerned herself with such trivialities, but Daenerys didn’t care. It was divided in two by an ornately carved wooden archway. The sitting area and study was furnished with a red velvet sleeping couch and a wide desk of polished black wood so shiny she could almost see her reflection on the surface, were it not for the stacks of scrolls and parchments and books scattered about, and the various glass and jeweled ornaments, silver candlesticks, and other adornments that served no purpose but to boast wealth and privilege and having one’s ass kissed. None of it belonged to her; the majority of her effects were still on Dragonstone, and there they’d remain. But she was not about to toss out everything in the Red Keep before she could confirm that it didn’t belong to an ancestor of hers. She was off put by the disarray of the chamber, but it was comfortable enough, with no appreciable means of entry for a potential assassin, yet light and airy enough not to feel like a crypt or a cell.

 

The other half of the room was mostly taken up by the largest bed she’d ever seen, the same black wood as the desk, canopied with voluminous silk.  The mattress was so plush that lying in it was like sinking in water, though lonely without one with whom to share it, and difficult to climb in and out of thanks to her ever changing form. Various decorative pillows covered the bed and spilled over onto an enormous ivory trunk at the foot of it. Why anyone needed so many pillows was a mystery, but the decor of the hundreds of bedchambers and offices and anterooms in the Red Keep was her last concern at the moment.

 

The room was stifling, even though the fire burned low in the hearth. She knew it was effect of being near Jon. Since they’d been in the capital, she’d spent time in close quarters with him for short visits, but in his little room there was no question who held the power. He had not been in her chambers in months; not since the first night at Winterfell, before everything imploded between them.  She blushed as she recalled that night, when he could not resist removing her furs and taking her from behind in a hot bath, doing what they could to avoid curious Northern ears, but betraying themselves when her climax hit her so mercilessly, the cry of his name had peeled from her lungs so loudly, they probably woke his mother’s ghost. Even his fervent kisses couldn’t muzzle her. That’s how it always was with him.

 

Oh that it could be so again, she lamented, even if it was a lie, for the lie felt so…. _ good _ .  And for a little while today, when he looked at her with admiration or affection, when he touched her or seemed excited about the baby, it was easy to see the lie as a truth.

 

_ He’s baiting you, sister. Don’t say you weren’t warned. _

 

Across from her bed was a rectangular cherry wood vanity, upon which sat gilded decanter full of Dornish strongwine, and two matching goblets. Daenerys glided over to it, trying to appear unfazed as though he were any other visitor, but inside she was in quite a state. With shaky hands, she filled the goblets, reaching one toward Jon. She avoided drink these days, but not now. She sipped gingerly as he accepted his goblet, downed it in one swig, and quickly poured more. She noticed how the dark red droplets beaded on his full lips and dribbled down his scruffy beard, and even the way he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand while never taking his eyes off her sparked a pang of protest between her legs. Suddenly the collar of her dress was suffocating. She silently cursed him. Time was not making this easier for her, not by any measure.

 

“You said there were matters we need to discuss,” she said coolly, breaking the crackling tension.

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Could you be more specific?”

 

Jon polished off the second goblet then set it on the table. His obsidian eyes bored into hers, entrancing as ever.

 

“The things you promised the people today…..it’s very ambitious.”

 

She rolled her eyes and curled her goblet to her chest. “And nothing frightens a man more than a woman’s ambition.”

 

“I’m not frightened. I’m hopeful you can keep your word.”

 

“I intend to.”

 

“How?”

 

_ “How?” _

 

He took two tentative steps closer to her, and she braced herself at his approach, nearly spilling her wine. She took another sip to conceal it.

 

“What you want to do will require time, resources, money. All of which are in short supply.”

 

When Jon spoke like this she was quick to remember his natural leadership. People responded to him. Respected him. Even she had, quite quickly after he’d come to Dragonstone. It seemed no time at all that she sought his counsel and approval above all others. It galled her. He was infuriatingly honorable, brave, and principled. She knew there was a dragon’s temper behind that stoic Northern demeanor, and a complete disregard for his own longevity, but he balanced her. He was good for her. He wanted to serve but was no sycophant. He had his own way of doing things, and considered his own interests last. 

 

And he certainly would have never burnt King’s Landing to the ground and obliterated so many innocents, nor would he have followed her if he believed that was her intention. 

 

            She scowled at the thought, as the familiar insecurities crept in, wrapping their tentacles around her heart, imbuing her with self doubt she could no longer afford to feel, the voice in her head that sounded like her own telling her that she did not deserve this, but  _ he _ did.

 

Then again, she considered that it was one thing to lead men into battle, and quite another to rule over them in the meantime. Jon understood fighting, he understood fucking, but he had shown limited understanding of matters involving the tedium of ruling. Realizing that rebuilding a city would come at great cost did not make him politically savvy. And if Jon Snow really had what it took to be in charge of anything, he would have never been murdered by his own men. Sometimes she had to remind herself that, despite his birthright and her mistakes, she would make a better ruler than he, because she saw the thousand shades of grey in the world, not just the black and white.

 

“The people of King’s Landing will rebuild their own city, and will be fairly paid for it,” she explained patiently. “And there are ways to raise revenue.”

 

“What ways?”

 

Her brows arched in disbelief. “Did you really come here to discuss financial matters? While you’ve spent weeks brooding in your room, I’ve spent that time poring over every record I can find, analyzing the Realm’s finances. Ledger after ledger full of tax collections, land ownership records, import and export and information.  Surely nothing that would interest you since there are no armies or battles involved.”

 

He lowered his head slightly as a sign of deference. Dany placed her goblet on the table and clasped her hands in front of her, moving across the room toward her bed, the distance allowing her some room to breathe and calm herself.

 

 “I am no expert in such affairs, but I can add and subtract at least.” She cocked an eyebrow pointedly. “It seems the wars that have plagued this kingdom for a decade have left many lands and castles lordless. The crown will claim these properties, and sell them to the highest bidder. If no citizen of Westeros is willing to pay the price, there are plenty of nobles in Essos with capital to spare, vainglorious enough to desire land on both sides of the sea.” Slowly she approached him, hands still clasped so tightly they were starting to sweat. “And I can always borrow money from the treasury in Meereen.”

 

His posture stiffened at the mention of her former city. “Will the Meereenese agree?”

 

“They would not dare refuse me. They owe me a great deal, and they will remember it.”

 

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes in thought. “Even if you can secure the money, you still can’t do this on your own. You don’t have the bureaucracy in place. You don’t even have a Small Council.”

 

Daenerys pursed her lips to hold in a chuckle. “You have an uncanny knack for telling me what I already know,  _ Aegon.”  _ He blanched at the sound of his given name on her lips, as she knew he would, because she never called him that. Calling him that made it real, gave him some standing. “I have no Small Council because there are none in Westeros I can trust.”

 

“Maybe for now competence is more important than blind loyalty,” he suggested as he helped himself to another glass of wine. He took a long drink, his nose wrinkling as the tart liquid coated his throat.

 

She reached for his goblet and placed it on the table, lest he find himself unable to speak in complete sentences soon. Dornish strongwine was called such for a reason, no matter what potent Wildling piss he was used to drinking. 

 

“I never expected blind loyalty. But I do require that my advisors not attempt to murder me or aid my enemies when a more attractive prospect emerges. Not a great deal to ask, I’m sure you’ll agree?”

 

He looked down at his feet again and nodded, as if to acknowledge that he’d been partly responsible for Varys’ attempt on her life.

 

“I’ve decided to name Yara Greyjoy my Mistress of Ships,” Dany continued. “As you witnessed, Grey Worm has already been appointed my Master of War. The Prince Of Dorne, Quentyn, I believe he’s called, who would be Rhaegar’s nephew by marriage….I understand he is a man of many...talents.” She grabbed her goblet, and raised it to her lips while she peered at him over the brim. She noticed that his brows knitted in annoyance. “I shall have to spend some time with him, to determine how he may best serve the realm.”

 

Jon’s countenance darkened. “So you have a Mistress of Ships, a Master of War, a Master of, you don’t know what, because you haven’t met him. What would they know of rebuilding a city? You need to appoint a Hand.”

 

He was close enough now it was almost intimate, and her eyes fell to his lips, so full and luscious, stained with the wine. She cleared her throat and took another sip of her own.

 

“A position that can only be bestowed on one I trust completely, who is intelligent and shrewd besides, and yes, who is loyal.” She placed the goblet on the table beside his, and inched closer, so close she had to crane her neck to look in his eyes, and her tone became low and raspy, her eyes shining devilishly. “I suppose I could look to Meereen for councillors as well as money, for I still have loyalty there…”

 

“From your lover?” He recoiled and bared his teeth in a humorless grin. When he turned away from her, she bit back a giggle. So predictable.

 

“ _ Former  _ lover,” she chided. “And Daario Naharis isn’t serious enough. He’s a sellsword. A brigand. A scoundrel.” She absently pulled her braid over her shoulder and wound the end around her fingers, eyeing Jon’s form. His back was to her and she allowed her gaze to follow the line of his broad shoulders down the taper of his trim waist, before moving lower to appreciate the shape of his ass. He wore a prince’s clothes well.

 

She felt brazen suddenly, and took a deep breath. “I could use him for other  _ purposes _ I suppose. He did amuse me. But he also believes that all problems should be solved at the point of a dagger. Hardly the ideal temperament for the Queen’s closest advisor.” She stepped closer to him, but he kept his back to her. “It’s such a pity,” she goaded.  “I would have loved for you to meet him. I’d glean hours of enjoyment, watching the two of you measure cocks.”

Jon whipped around and stalked towards her, a wolf on the prowl with the dragon’s fire burning in his eyes. He was on her in two strides, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. 

 

“It’s my babe in your belly, not his,” he snarled in her ear, “ I don’t need to measure anything.”

 

He pulled back, and his dark eyes met her blue ones, flashing with anger and heat. His jaw was set with that familiar male arrogance, but his lips twitched slightly. She had to give herself a moment to keep from reaching for him, claiming his lips with hers. This game was getting dangerous.

 

Dany blinked first, retreating to the vanity again.  She retrieved her goblet (or maybe it was his) and finished  it off with a flourish. She checked her reflection in the looking glass, noting the flush of her cheeks that traveled down her neck and disappeared into the valley between her plumpened breasts, unsure if it was the effect of the wine, or sparring with Jon. She only hoped he didn’t notice.

 

“You seem jealous,” she muttered. “Do not fret,  _ Aegon _ , Daario Naharis will remain far from Westeros, and I will appoint a Hand when I find the best candidate. But given the disastrous performance of my former Hand, I must be more circumspect in my decision this time.”

 

“Why haven’t you executed Tyrion?”

 

The sudden shift in the conversation startled her, and disappointed her a little, for discussing political appointments was far less interesting than making Jon jealous and flustered. 

 

I’ve been busy,” she replied, narrowing her eyes at him in the mirror.

 

“Too busy to execute a man you’ve named a traitor?”

 

She turned to him, leaning against the table to relieve the ache in her back, resting her palms on the edge, her belly protruding. Not exactly a regal presentation, she knew, but the babe was now big enough that she had to make several accommodations for her own comfort, and if she looked awkward, he’d just have to understand.

 

“I named him traitor because he is a traitor. He was a significant link in a chain of events that nearly led to my death. Then he conspired to help Cersei and the Kingslayer flee the capital.”

 

“So why’s he still alive?” Jon approached her again, and this time she did not stop him when he reached behind her and poured another goblet of wine. It occurred to her that he must feel as out of sorts as she did; she’d never seen him drink this much so quickly. Right now he could even challenge Tyrion.

 

She tilted her head, exasperated. “If you are so hungry for the Imp’s death, by all means see to it.”

 

Jon took another long gulp of wine and ran his sleeve across that beautiful mouth. “I didn’t pass the sentence.” He lowered his lips to her ear again, liquid courage doing its work. His breath was hot against the lobe, sending a pleasant chill down her spine. 

 

“Do you want to know what I think?”

 

Dany turned her head slightly and when she did she found his lips barely an inch from hers. She raised her eyes to meet his.

 

“Not particularly, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

 

Jon lowered his head even more, his nose feathering her cheek. Gods, it would be so easy just to reach out, give in, stop trading barbs and get on with it, and she was ready to do just that when he rasped in his thick Northern brogue, “I think you’re havin’ doubts. Despite all your bluster I don’t believe you’re as eager for Tyrion’s head as you let on.”

 

He held her gaze for a long time, eyes soft and earnest, with fire behind them. He was obviously well into his cups, and she was surprised he was still standing upright, and just then he began to sway a bit. Dany braced herself. The last time he’d been tipsy in her presence, he’d led her on with a passionate kiss as he tore at her clothes and tried to corner her against a table to have his way with her, before the ghosts of his parents materialized and stopped him cold. She would not allow it again. He would not dare rekindle her hopes only to deny her. From now on, she dictated their intimacy, not him. 

 

She managed to wriggle away from him without surrendering herself, and his face fell.

 

“Execution is an instrument of justice,” she rebuked. “My eagerness has nothing to do with it.” She turned her attention to smoothing her skirts, trying to avoid his eyes, tired of this precarious dance.

 

“Only you don’t really think it just,” Jon replied. He took a step forward and tucked his knuckles under her chin, tilting her head toward his, compelling her to look him in the eye, and another flush of heat spread over her body. “In your heart you know Tyrion doesn’t deserve to die. He may have failed you as your Hand, but you can’t blame him for Varys’ actions, and you can’t blame him for wanting to spare his siblings’ lives.”

 

It was as though he’d dumped a pail of icy water over her head.  What did Jon Snow stand to gain by interceding on Tyrion’s behalf?  One more thing for her to contemplate. She was so weary, trying to unravel the true motives of everyone around her, and if she tugged enough at those threads, she found no real friends, no pure intentions. The loneliness was suffocating and she yearned for a quiet smile from Missandei, or a word of counsel from her old bear. There was a time when Jon was part of that circle, one to whom she’d look for advice and comfort, but that trust had only burned her, time and again.

 

Dany wrapped her fingers around Jon’s wrist and lowered his hand, fixing a wilting glare on him for his insolence. “He knew against whom I was going to war when he came into my service. If he didn’t have the stomach for it, he should have refused my offer.”

 

“Maybe he believed he did, until the time came,” Jon shrugged. “I don’t know what was in his mind. People behave irrationally when it comes to family.”

 

Jon Snow obviously lacked a sense of irony, and Dany curled her fingers into her palms to fight the urge to pummel him.

 

“So would you have me do? Pardon him? Restore his position?”

 

“No. That would never work. Too much has happened. Even if you set him free today, your relationship with him is too damaged. But Tyrion does have certain gifts. If anyone is suited to help rebuild the capital, it’s him.”

 

She had to concede that he was right.  Maybe he had better instincts for this than she supposed. She was suddenly very tired, her back ached, and her feet were swelling and throbbing. She hobbled over to her bed sat down with a loud exhale. Jon took the liberty of sitting down beside her, and instinctively rested his hand on her lower back, rubbing small circles there, which she appreciated in spite of herself. Gods damn him, he could be so sweet, so considerate sometimes, why did he have to be such a thick bastard otherwise? 

 

She eased more into his caresses, that familiar warmth enveloping her softening heart. “Yes, you’re right, I suppose the sewage systems could use some improvements.” Her lips curved to a tight smile. “But even if I do as you suggest with Tyrion, that puts me no closer to finding my Hand.”

 

“May...may I suggest Ser Davos?”

 

_ And there it is,  _ the snake’s voice taunted.

 

She jerked away from his touch and he frowned, slowly withdrawing his hand.

 

“Ser Davos?”

 

“I know it’s an odd suggestion,” Jon said tentatively. “He’s not educated, it’s true. But he has better sense than almost anyone I know. And he understands the people you most want to help.”

 

“He’s one of yours, not mine. His loyalty lies with you.”

 

Jon shifted toward her and took her hand again. “And my loyalty lies with you. Which means his would too.” He looked sheepish, a favorite ploy of his, but seven hells if it wasn’t effective.

 

“That certainly wasn’t true of your family,” she bit back, her tongue thick behind her teeth.  “Why should I believe Ser Davos would be any different?”  

 

The very thought of traitorous cousins turned her blood molten. She pushed herself back up from the bed, needing to create space between them. But this time he did not relent, and followed her across the room, through the archway to the study.

 

He clasped his hands around hers. He was so warm, so familiar. “Davos isn’t like my family. He’s not obsessed with titles and status and playing the games the high lords and ladies love. He only wants to be of service.”

Dany focused her eyes on Jon’s chest rather than his face, as an unwanted thought occurred to her. “I doubt he wants to serve  _ me _ . Not after….” the words caught in her throat.

 

His shoulders rose and fell sharply, and he cupped her cheek. Reflexively she leaned into his touch.

 

“That….that’s in the past. We have to go forward now.” He cocked his head slightly, “Just like you told the people.”

 

_ What if I can’t, though? _

 

“He probably doesn’t think very highly of me,” she argued, tired and defeated.  At this point, did anyone?  

 

When she had told Jon that she would rule by fear if she could not have love, she meant it, but it didn’t mean she had to embrace it. She had not become well-acquainted with Ser Davos before, but what she did know, she liked.  He reminded her of Ser Barristan, plain spoken with a homespun sort of wisdom. And he was a far better advisor to Jon than Varys and Tyrion ever were to her. Sadly, her thoughts drifted to Ser Jorah again, and she tried to suppress the resentment she felt that she’d sent him to his death, for nothing.  Well, not  _ nothing _ . She was alive, Jon was alive, their babe thrived within her womb, and the North owed her fealty whether Sansa Stark wanted to swear it or not. But it was hardly a comfort.

  
“I know you impressed him,” Jon assured her.  “He believed you were a force to be reckoned with.”  He squeezed her hands tighter, pulling her arms to his chest, and her heart skittered. “And he always encouraged my….my feelings for you.”

 

“What feelings were those, exactly?” She could barely speak above a whisper.  She needed to get away, but the pull to him was too powerful, and she felt like she was in a sinking boat, scooping water out with a teacup to stay afloat.  Her pulse pounded so ferociously, she felt it in her ears.

 

_ Don’t, don’t, don’t…. _

 

“You already know the answer.”  His eyes were burning through her now, his pillowy lips parting, his chest rising and falling with hitched breaths as he brushed his thumbs over her fisted hands.

 

The snake’s voice goaded her to shout at him, to slap him across the face or knee him in the groin, anything to get away from him, before he could drive another dagger in her heart. But her body rebelled as he lowered his face to hers. Only when his lips barely brushed hers did she regain her agency, turning her head away, tilting her chin, blue eyes flashing with defiance as she wrenched her hands away from his. 

 

“What I know is that you made a fool of me,” she growled, the dragon inside burning with rage. “I loved and trusted you more than anyone. I shared things with you I’ve never shared with anyone because I believed you felt the same.” 

 

Each word was an arrow, deftly finding its mark. Jon’s brows knitted together, his eyes shimmering with emotions she dare not name, and he started to open his mouth as if to argue his case, but she shut him down hastily. Fire coarsed in her veins but her voice was frigid as the waters that almost claimed him beyond the Wall.

 

 “I laid myself bare to you, twice. Begged…. _ begged  _ you to love me still. And you rejected me, twice. What am I meant to believe, but that you had used me for your purposes, that you manipulated and deceived me to get what you wanted? I gave everything to you, and everything was not enough, because you could not love me.”

 

The wounds were opened again, fresh and raw and ugly, and she tried to stop herself, but could not. Because she needed to know. This thing between them, the thing that had hung over her head like an executioner’s axe, had to fall, one way or the other. Then he was on her again, his strong hands grasping her upper arms, squeezing more tightly than was comfortable, like he wanted to shake her.

 

“I could,” he cried.  “I can! I do! Gods, Dany, I never stopped! Even if it was wrong….”

 

“Why was it wrong?”

 

“It wasn’t. I know that now. The wish I’d known it then. I know I hurt you. I know I broke us. But do not doubt that my love for you was real.  _ Is  _ real. I..I love you.”

 

His eyes were red rimmed, tears barely held at bay, and her own could not be halted.

 

“I’m sorry,” he entreated as he pulled her into his arms. She held hers firm at her sides, but then he began peppering the crown of her head and her hair with kisses, repeating, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…” and she allowed herself to embrace him too. 

 

They stood together for a moment, just so, her silent tears dotting the breast of his doublet, and she could almost see him close his eyes as he took a deep breath and inhaled her familiar scent.

 

And before she realized what was happening, his lips were on hers, soft and beseeching, but when she gave a hint of response, he pounced, dipping his tongue inside her mouth to taste her, her lips moving in time with his, losing herself in the familiarity, the feeling of home. His hands trailed upward to cup her face, their heads tilting this way and that, seeking, savoring, devouring.

 

She didn’t notice that he’d slowly been guiding her toward the desk until she felt the edge contact her bottom, and with the slightest push from him she was perched on it, his mouth never leaving hers as though he feared if he stopped she may disappear.

 

Her whole body was throbbing, sparked back to life with each pass of his lips over hers, and she mewled against his mouth, the encouragement he needed to press himself against her. She felt his arousal against her hip as he slowly urged her back, his hands traveling down the column of her neck, over her shoulders, fingers indenting her skin.

 

When she felt the tug at the fastening of her neckline, her eyes blew wide and she was hurtled back to reality. Tensing against him, she planted her palms flat on his chest, trying to squirm away. In so doing, she shifted on the desk, and a terrible clatter startled them both, the racket shattering the silence as a large painted glass ornament fell from the desktop and splintered into a million shards.

 

Then it was a blur. She could hardly take a breath before the chamber door flew open so hard, it slammed against the wall, and one Unsullied guard had Jon restrained with his arms behind him while the other struck a blow to his temple, then his gut, crumpling him to the floor as Daenerys gasped.

 

_ “Keligon! Gaomagon daor ōdrikagon zirȳla!”  _ She shouted.

 

The guards gaped at her, confused. 

 

_ “Dohaeragon zirȳla bē.” _

 

The men nodded and did as she commanded, grabbing Jon under his arms and standing him upright, but daggers still at the ready to strike.  Jon’s eyes were alight with fury, and he slowly raised his hand to his temple where a nasty purple welt had already formed.

 

_ “Ivestragī zirȳla jikagon,”  _ she bit out crossly, and the guards cautiously released their hold on him and stepped back.

 

Her body was still thrumming, with desire, with anxiety, with almost every emotion she could name, and her skin felt too tight to contain it. Her heart still raced, she was flushed and disheveled, and a little embarrassed. She approached Jon, whose mouth was now set in an angry pout, and she knew he was barely restraining himself from throwing punches, even though his pride was probably more injured than his body. She raised her fingers to brush the welt on his temple, but he withdrew from her touch, and she lowered her hand, her fingers curled into her palm.

 

“Perhaps you should return to your chamber,” she said flatly. “I’ll send a healer for you.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Jon….”

 

“It’s  _ fine.”  _

 

She nodded to her guards to escort him from the chamber. Confusion and disappointment washed over her. What moment they shared had so easily awakened all the feelings she tried so desperately to put to rest. She’d never be rid of him. He was under her skin, in her blood, a part of her. What a torturous existence she had to look forward to.

 

“I will send for Ser Davos and speak to him,” she said as he was being led away.

 

“I can…”

 

“No.” She stood her ground, reclaiming what authority she could, even though she had none over her heart and body. “You do not speak for me, Jon Snow. And you never will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roughly the Valyrian at the end translates as follows:  
> “Stop! Do not harm him!”  
> “Get him up.”  
> “Let him go.”


	5. Seven Devils All Around You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We step away from King’s Landing to check in at WinterHell. Sansa....you in danger girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I’m sorry for taking so long to update. My muse for this one kinda died for a bit because I was struggling with chapter 5. So I decided to do a different chapter 5 instead, and the original chapter 5 is partially written and should not be as long in coming. And it’s Dadvos to the rescue!

**SANSA**

  
  
  


She could not sit at this desk one more minute, or she’d likely go mad. Her neck ached from being perpetually bent, not over her needlework, but scrolls and correspondence.  Her back was stiff and her bottom tingled with the need to get up and  _ move.  _ It was so quiet.   _ Too _ quiet nowadays.

 

 The civilian survivors of the Long Night, mostly peasants, had returned to their homes. The dead were vanquished, and Winterfell endured.  _ House Stark  _ endured as it had for millennia, Dragon Queen or no. But they’d had so little time together before they fractured and scattered again.

 

Arya off to gods knew where.

 

Bran, a shell of himself, strange, detached, and spending all his time speaking in riddles, preoccupied with the past.

 

And  _ Jon. _

 

The very thought of him made her blood boil with mixed emotions she could not quite place. She wished she could have convinced him to stay behind. Even if he wasn’t really her brother anymore, she supposed he was still family, and she could use that. If he’d remained at Winterfell just a bit longer, if he weren’t so bound and determined to prove his loyalty to his precious Queen, she could have worn him down and convinced him to press his claim. Personal glory wasn’t the angle to play with Jon, so she needed to appeal to his sense of duty. It was his  _ duty _ as his father’s son to rule the kingdoms, preferably without that insufferable bitch in the picture. Ideally, they’d find a way to rid the realm of her, and to send her herd of foreign scum back across the Narrow Sea where they belonged. 

 

But Sansa’s entreaties had fallen on deaf ears, as usual. Jon was too far gone in love with his Queen, and not a man to break his promises in any case. The wide-eyed girl she was when she left Winterfell all those years ago would have thought it romantic. In another place and time she might have given him advice on how to court a woman properly. The notion of Jon writing sonnets or presenting pretty bouquets of winter roses to any woman, let alone his warrior queen, made her snicker. She remembered Petyr’s fanciful tale of her aunt and the Dragon Prince, how scandalous but bittersweet that scene must have been, knowing what she knew now. But she could not fathom Jon being so dramatic. He’d won the Queen’s love the same way he won everyone’s love, with his earnestness and  honor and courage. 

 

Sansa didn’t want to take anything from Jon, truly. The Dragon Queen made him happy; that was obvious. He’d possibly never been happy his entire life, though he certainly deserved it as much as anyone. But there was no other way, for his Queen made it clear that she meant to reclaim all seven kingdoms, and she intended to count the North in that number. She couldn’t possibly be as terrible as her father or Joffrey, or as indifferent as Robert; Sansa was not ignorant of that. But the North had suffered far too long and lost too much with the boot of southron rule crushing its throat. If Jon were King, he’d understand, and he’d allow them to secede; with any luck, he’d even see to it that they still enjoyed the benefits the other kingdoms provided, at least until Spring came.

 

So she did what she had to do. She had observed the the Queen’s tenuous relationship with Tyrion, and noted the concerned glances her former husband would exchange with Varys, and she knew the move she must make, though it pained her. The Spider was as untrustworthy as a man could be, but Tyrion trusted him more than anyone, and Varys was the key.  It puzzled Sansa that the Dragon Queen accepted the eunuch, who rivaled Petyr in the art of doublespeak and deception, into her service, but she had, and that had been a grave error by Sansa’s reckoning.  _ Divided loyalties, indeed.  _  In telling Tyrion of Jon’s identity, she could water the seeds of discord and doubt that had already been planted, and if things went the way she predicted they would, eventually the kingdoms would rally to Jon’s side, driving him from that woman’s arms and to his rightful place on the throne. And Jon, for all his stubbornness and self righteousness, was far more pliable than his aunt. Sansa couldn’t imagine a better scenario, besides sitting the Iron Throne herself, and that was never going to be hers anyway. 

 

Part of her did feel a pang of guilt, though. She knew as soon as Bran shared Jon’s secret that she had no intention of keeping it. It was too valuable, and Petyr always admonished her that knowledge is power. Still, she did betray his trust. He’d probably hate her for it. He’d just have to see the larger picture, though he likely never would, because he’d be stuck on the dishonor of it all.  

 

_ So be it.  _

 

She and Jon were never close as children, and when they reunited at the Wall, they only reconciled out of necessity. After they cast the Boltons out, they reverted to bickering, distrust, and rivalry, old habits being hard to break. She couldn’t help it. He never gave her credit when it was due, never recognized the value of her intellect or experience, never heeded her advice. He wasn’t a stupid man, but he wasn’t a political strategist, and he didn’t understand people and what they were capable of. All his years living with thieves and murderers and rapers and wildlings, all the things he’d seen  _ and  _ done, and he still didn’t know. So she sought to counsel him as best she could. She may have erred in trying to prevent his meeting with the Dragon Queen initially - even she had to begrudgingly admit that without the Targaryen forces and the dragonglass, the North would have fallen - but if Jon had never met Daenerys Targaryen, he would not be in her thrall now, more of a submissive lapdog than a ferocious wolf. 

 

It was infuriating to see him reduced to such, and Sansa’s ire was further raised in knowing that the silver haired bitch had more influence over him than she ever would; not because of her crown, but because of what was between her legs. Sansa had no interest in using her quim as a weapon against anyone, even if Cersei had told her it was her greatest asset, and the faintest hope of it had allowed her to play Petyr so expertly. But Daenerys Targaryen had used hers to great effect, and Jon could not have behaved more foolishly if he’d been kicked in the head as a child and rendered simple, the way he handed the North over to her on a platter and then followed her to the capital like a lost pup.

 

Ironically, now it seemed that the hopes for the North rested with Cersei Lannister. It was a remote possibility that Cersei could outwit her foe and retain her crown. Better the enemy you know, Sansa reasoned. Cersei did have an uncanny ability to eliminate her rivals, but it was too much to hope for this time. The Dragon Queen was many things, but not stupid, and she would not fall for a clever trap a second time and risk her last dragon. Sansa saw for herself the destruction of which those flying serpents were capable during the battle of Winterfell , and it terrified her. Just another reason their mistress had to be dealt with. With the dragons, even one of them, the foreign Queen was nigh indestructible, no matter how wily her adversary. And if she had no one to fear, then she had no one to check her. 

 

But if Cersei’s forces were miraculously able to fell the last dragon, the odds would shift in the lioness’s favor. The combined Targaryen forces were vastly depleted, and wounded and battle weary besides.  Sansa could at least be grateful for the Dragon Queen’s arrogance and impatience in that respect. Soldier to soldier, Houses Targaryen and Lannister would be more evenly matched. Perhaps then they’d destroy one another. Sansa didn’t much care  _ how  _ that happened, as long as it happened. The sooner, the better.

 

Yes, she had assumed an immense risk in betraying Jon, for if she bet the wrong way, be it on her head. But things usually worked to her benefit eventually, if she had patience, so she could only pray to whatever gods may hear her that the same would hold true now.

 

She cursed as her elbow nudged the inkwell beside her, tipping it over and spilling its contents all over the ledger she was reconciling. She cursed Winterfell’s lack of a steward as she angrily tore the half-completed page from its binding and crumpled it into a tight ball, hurling it towards the fireplace as if the smudged, ruined paper was the source of all her troubles.  It landed several feet away from its target, and she scowled and rose to her feet, pushing her ornately carved chair hard under the desk, rattling the drawers and knocking her quill from the table. 

 

With a huff, she collected her outer cloak from the rack in the corner and slipped it over her shoulders. She peered through her frost covered window into the bright gray and white outside.  Scanning the grounds below, her eyes wandered to the brilliant red leaves of the weirwood tree that spattered like drops of blood against the snow. She could not stand it anymore. She had to speak to him.

 

🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶🔶

 

Snow and slush crunched under her heavy boots as she trudged toward the stone gate that surrounded Winterfell’s godswood. She reached for the latch, and an eerie breeze pushed her hood off her head. She shivered violently. She hadn’t visited the wood since the day Jon revealed himself as Aegon Targaryen, true heir to the Iron Throne. Like her mother, Sansa was deferential to the northern gods of her father,  but she prayed to the Seven, or did, before the Lannisters murdered half her family. It really didn’t matter, because they never seemed to hear her anyway, but it was still with trepidation that she trod this sacred ground, for fear the old gods may strike her down for breaking the oath she swore to Jon in their sight. 

 

He was there of course, as he always was, appearing clammy and frail, and somewhat troubled, his stare cold and lidless. He did not seem to be caught in one of his visions, but there was no mistaking his concern. She knew he was well aware of her presence, but he paid her no regard.

 

She still mourned the little boy he had been, who ran through the training yard and kept on Jon’s heels, who clung to Robb’s every word and scowled as Old Nan told him stories when he didn’t want to go to sleep. It was difficult to recall the dirty-faced little scamp who climbed towers and trees to their mother’s consternation, who was too bright for his own good, with a warm heart and a wry tongue and a mischievous twinkle never far from his eyes.

 

Since he returned with his strange new powers, he was….altered. Emotionless, cool, without empathy, cryptic and strange, and Sansa had wondered more than once if he was merely a neutral  _ observer of  _ the past and present, and what kept him from using that knowledge to manipulate the future. As frightening as an ambitious woman with large armies and dragons was, Bran, or the Three-Eyed Raven as he called himself now, might be more so.

 

_ Knowledge is power. _

 

Tentatively, she stepped beside his chair, joining him in studying the weirwood face. She hated those strange, gruesome faces, the hollow eyes that followed every move of anyone who entered here.

 

“What did you see?”

 

Bran kept his gaze fixed steadfast on the tree, and her agitation spiked. 

 

“Death.”

 

“Could you elaborate?” 

 

“King’s Landing has fallen. Thousands dead, including Cersei Lannister and Ser Jaime. Daenerys is Queen now.”

 

“I see.” Her heart dropped. She drew a sharp breath and exhaled slowly, but found no calm. For weeks now, it was as though storm clouds crowded her wherever she went, and now they were ready to burst, and she was ill prepared for the deluge. “Did you find Arya?”

 

“She survived. Jon as well.”

 

Sansa brushed the fresh skiff of snow from the twisted, thick root at the base of the tree, then settled herself upon it, resting her elbows on her knees. She was heartened that Jon and Arya were still alive, but she knew by looking at Bran that there was much more he had not said, and, try as she might to steel her spine and face whatever was to come with her typical poise, an ominous fog enveloped her now, raising her hackles.

 

“The last time we were in this godswood together, you made a promise,” Bran droned, finally shifting his dark eyes to meet hers. 

 

She could see the naked judgment in his face. She lowered her guilty gaze to her lap, like a child being scolded for sneaking sweets before dinner, feeling the ice of her brother’s knowing stare as he continued.

 

“You swore to keep Jon’s secret. But you told Tyrion, and he told Varys. It seems your instincts were correct. When Varys learned about Jon, he turned against Daenerys. First he tried to poison her. When that failed, he dispatched ravens throughout the Realm, declaring Jon as Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of his Name and the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

 

Her pulse rushed faster and she gnawed at her bottom lip as her fingers worried a stray thread on her cloak, that was unraveling right along with her nerves. She had not foreseen that one of the Dragon Queen’s advisors would actually try to murder her.  To undermine the Queen was one thing; to attempt regicide was a far graver matter. Suddenly her corset felt far too tight, squeezing the air from her lungs.

 

“I suppose he was discovered.”

 

 “She burned him alive, as she told him she would if he ever betrayed her.”

 

“And Tyrion?”

 

“Imprisoned in the Black Cells, to be executed for treason.”

 

She felt she may empty her guts right there in the snow.  This was….not good. She had counted on Tyrion to share Jon’s secret, but she’d also thought he would take more care in how he did so.  She assumed that he would confide in Varys at least, but could not fathom why the Spider would be so clumsy and brazen in his machinations. In a way, she felt responsible for her former husband’s fate, but she also understood the implications for herself, and that concerned her far more. She stood and pulled her cloak closer and forced herself to look at the weirwood’s face. It seemed to be mocking her. A reckoning was coming.

 

“If she executed Varys, and intends to execute Tyrion, she’ll condemn me next,” she murmured as she toed a patch of snow. She cut her ice-blue eyes to her brother, and when he looked back, for the first time in ages, it wasn’t like staring into a void. If she imagined hard enough, she could almost recognize a flicker of Bran behind that inky gaze. Under different circumstances, she’d have taken some comfort in it, but there was none to be found now. The gears in her mind turned faster and faster, making her temples throb under the press of dreadful thoughts. “If she names me a traitor, she’ll accuse Jon next, and execute him too! What better way to resolve the legitimacy of her claim?”

 

“She won’t hurt Jon. She loves him.”

 

She rolled her eyes and puffed a derisive breath through her nostrils that collided with the cold air and evaporated as fast as her hopes were.

 

Bran tilted his chin disapprovingly. “Scoff if you wish, but it is her love for Jon that has stayed her hand so far. He spoke for you. Pleaded mercy for your life”

 

Sansa was actually surprised, but pleasantly. Maybe there was some slim chance that Jon could be brought back to the light, or that if it came to a choice, he would remember that he was a Northerner.

 

“What did she say?”

 

“You’re still alive, aren't you?”

 

“So she granted his request for mercy?”  

 

“No. But she seems in no rush to act.  I think she’d prefer to keep you looking over your shoulder. It strengthens her position more than killing you outright.”

 

Sansa shook her head forcefully. “I don’t fear her.”

 

“Yes you do,” Bran chided.  “And you should. She destroyed the Greyjoy fleet, the city walls, and the Golden Company before her men drew swords. The Lannister soldiers surrendered before a melee could begin, and she still burned the city between the King’s Gate and the Red Keep. None will dare stand against her now.”

 

“The North will stand,” she argued, though her confidence was false, and did not fool her younger sibling. There was no guarantee of her bannermen’s loyalty, and she knew it. Men she and Jon couldn’t rally to their cause against the Boltons followed a Targaryen Queen to King’s Landing, and there they saw her might firsthand. They wouldn’t allow the fate of the capital to befall their homes and families. 

 

As if reading her mind, Bran’s eyes softened with pleading. “They will not, Sansa. Whatever notions you have in your head, I beseech you, sister, put them aside. Bend the knee to Daenerys and keep the peace.”

 

“I will not.”

 

“Then she will execute you, and the rest of the North will yield anyway.”

 

She could not argue the point.  Tears of anger and frustration and defeat sprang to her eyes. No.  This was not the end of the fight. She had not come this far, and suffered all she had, to yield to a foreign whore and her fire-breathing lizard because the woman thought her surname entitled her to anything she wanted.  If the throne belonged to anyone, by rights it was Jon’s. He had to see that, no matter what it took to convince him.

 

“What about Jon? If we can find a way to bring him home, we can reason with him. Persuade him to press his claim. The other kingdoms would rally to him, I know it!”

 

Bran peered up at her with eyes wiser than his seventeen years. “He won’t press his claim. He won’t come home.”

 

“But he must see her for what she is now!  He won’t stand for it!”

 

“She’s pregnant, Sansa.”

 

The words stole her breath, and she actually had to reach for the tree to steady herself.  Her blood pumped furiously, heating her cold skin. She wanted to scream, to throw things, to punch….SOMETHING.  Perhaps she should take up swordplay. What she wouldn’t give to take a few good whacks at a helpless target. That woman really had Jon fully trapped in her web now, to feast upon at her leisure, to drain the life from him.

 

She grasped for one last thread of hope. “How can you be sure the child is Jon’s, and not sired by one of her savages?” 

 

She knew as certain as she knew her own name  _ that  _ was impossible.  She saw the way the Dragon Queen and Jon looked at one another, like ravenous beasts, and tried her hardest to  _ not  _ picture all the debauchery they got up to in their moments alone.  And Jon would never, ever, EVER choose his siblings, who weren’t even really his siblings anymore, over his own child.  He would not raise a hand against the Queen now. He probably wouldn’t even dare question her. There really was no hope, except the dark thought that passed from her brain to her lips before she could stop it. 

 

“I suppose she could die in childbirth, or the child could be stillborn…”

 

“Do you really wish for the death of an innocent child?”

 

“How many innocent children did she burn in King’s Landing?” 

 

“Do not feign care for the children of King’s Landing. Daenerys may not be the Queen you want, but she is the Queen you have, and the child she carries is your kin.”

 

Sansa was seething now. “A whelp spawned of incest is no kin of mine.”

 

“You don’t really feel that way. I know you. You are not so heartless as you think.”

 

The disappointment she saw in Bran’s eyes was something that would haunt her until the end of her days, and she couldn’t hold his gaze. Truth be told, she was ashamed of herself for such poisonous thoughts and words. She had no love for Daenerys Targaryen, but to despise an unborn child of her own blood? She barely recognized herself right now.  

 

“I cannot tell you what to do, sister,” Bran cautioned, his voice low and stern, “but if you start a war against Daenerys, you will not win. Would you have the North destroyed for the sake of your pride and ambition?”

 

She squeezed her eyes closed for a moment and sighed loudly. Perhaps Bran saw more than she knew.  Perhaps he saw her heart.

 

“I would have the North be free. Kissing the boots of another Southron monarch is not freedom.”

 

“Neither is suicide.”

 

She folded her arms over her chest, refusing to yield just yet as she cocked her head at him. “I’m surprised to see you so concerned. I didn’t think you cared about anything anymore.”

 

“It’s not as simple as all that.”  He turned his eyes back to the weirwood’s face, and his countenance darkened.

 

“It never is with you, is it?” Sansa placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly, though he did not react. “Keep your eyes on her then. If she means to harm me, at least I can be a step ahead.”

 

“I can’t,” Bran muttered.

 

She blew an exasperated breath.  Her brother really had become the most exhausting person she knew. 

 

“Does it offend your ethics?”

 

Bran leaned back in his chair but kept his eyes fixed on the tree.  He did not respond immediately, and the silence was deafening. 

 

“My sight is fading,” he finally uttered. “The Three-Eyed Raven was the sworn enemy of the Night King. Now he’s destroyed, it’s….slipping away.  _ I’m  _ slipping away.”

 

She blinked her eyes hard, taken aback, bracing herself. “What do you mean, Bran?”

 

“Brandon Stark died in a cave north of the wall.  I am the Three-Eyed Raven, no longer part of the world of men. If I do not return there…..”

 

“You’ll die?” A lump stuck in her throat, and the tears she’d been fighting finally slipped free, sticking to her cheeks in the freezing air.  No. This would not stand. Their family had not been through hell to return to one another for it to end this way. She would not allow it. 

 

“The Power of the Three-Eyed Raven will cease, and my body will fail.”

 

“Bran…..no.”

 

She was surprised when she felt his hand cover hers with a gentle squeeze, and she knelt and kissed his forehead, then pressed hers to his cheek, her tears flowing like a river now.

 

“I’m not going back. I have served my purpose. With what time I have left, I want to rest, and to remember. Not everything that has ever happened to everyone, but to remember Brandon Stark, as he was….before.”

 

“I won’t let you die,” Sansa pleaded.  She knelt before him and clasped her hands around his thin arms. “You’re my baby brother. The only true brother I have left.  You have to fight this,” she cried, for all the good it would do. But alas, he was resolved. He leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers, like she was his sister once more, and he was not an all-seeing stranger.

 

“My fight is done, Sansa.  We saved the North. Don’t let it be destroyed again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hate her. Fucking LOATHE her. Even in earlier seasons she was by far my least favorite Stark (besides her mother). She was selfish and petty and superior. And she made one stupid fucking choice after another. IDK if it was the character or Sophie’s portrayal or a combination of both, but I just never really liked Sansa Stark, or at least I was indifferent to her.
> 
> But what they did to her from season six on was an affront. Basically, they took a girl who suffered years of abuse and trauma and turned her into Westeros’ version of Regina George. And it wasn’t a good look. It went from bad to worse from season 6 to season 8, and in season 8 she was intolerable.
> 
> That being said, she is a vital part of the story, and if I’m going to write about her, I have to try to get in her head and apply some objectivity and empathy. Like, I know she was written the way she was, not because her behavior made any sort of sense, but because we needed to have CoNfLiCt between two young and capable female leaders (rather than, you know, collaboration). So, while this chapter probably won’t make any Sansa stans happy, I’ve done the best I can do because I ain’t never gonna hold her up as an example of what female leadership (or any other kind of leadership) should look like. But I do have to acknowledge that she was a frontrunner in the Olympics of Suffering for a long time, and those experiences fundamentally changed her (and not for the better ahem ahem fuck you D&D for insinuating that sexual and physical terrorism makes you strong later, and without it you can’t grow). So this is what I came up with, and if you can’t handle a Sansa chapter from a non-Sansa fan, you might wanna skip. Luckily I only have 2-3 Sansa POV chapters planned. This is a Jonerys story, and their POV’s will dominate, but sometimes it’s good to see them thru other characters’ eyes.
> 
> Finally, there is a small section of this chapter that some may read as Jonsa being, at least, a one sided thing. Let me assure you … NO. That is the crackship from hell, and it’s hard to see that the two of them really even like each other, let alone secretly love each other. No. Just….No. To be fair I think there is an obligatory affection between them because they were raised as siblings, but this was, is, and always will be a relationship that is strained AF in my mind. (He didn’t even forgive her, people. Nor should he have. Come on. Even Tweedles Dum and Dee had the sense to make that clear in their script notes.)
> 
> As far as Bran: Correct me if I’m wrong, but the 3ER is a show creation, as is the Night King. Therefore, the 3ER and his powers and purpose aren’t truly explored (because, you know, they cut him out of an entire goddamn season.) So in my head canon, the 3ER and Night King are 2 sides of a coin. The yin to the other’s yang. The Potter to the other’s Voldemort. 3ER is the cheese, NK is the macaroni. And you can’t have one without the other. There was some reference in the show (a lot, actually) to Bran not being “Bran” anymore. “Bran” died in the cave and the 3ER sorta took up residence in his skin. Kind of like how the vampires work on Buffy. So anyway, to me it stands to reason that the 3ER’s purpose was to defeat the NK, and once that was done, his services were no longer required, so he’s just gon fade away. Unfortunately, that means Bran has to go too. Because Bran has a power that’s probably more dangerous than any other power: Omniscience. And with that power, he can be the puppet master. AND NO ONE IS REALLY TALKING ABOUT THAT LIKE IT’S A PROBLEM. We’re just happy he knows the most private details of every single person’s life. Bran is Big Brother. Do we think Big Brother is a good thing? This wasn’t very well thought out, was it?
> 
> Thanks for reading


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